The Deduction of Science
by The Mad Chatter
Summary: Sherlock AU: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson live in a world where some people are born Manipulators - people who can intuitively use energy transfer to accomplish seemingly amazing things. It's only science, after all. But then someone starts arcane ritual killings and Holmes is on the case! But just why does he find this quiet doctor so intriguing? (godI'mshiteatsummaries)
1. Chapter 1

NOTE FOR THIS AND ALL SUBSEQUENT CHAPTERS:

_I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, DI Lestrade, or any of the previously-published characters in this story. They were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and have been brilliantly reimagined by the team at BBC Sherlock, whose world I am slightly borrowing for this story. With some reimagining myself, of course. _

NOTE FOR THIS CHAPTER:

_Hi all! This is my first attempt at a serialized fanfiction, so bear with me. Also, I don't have a beta or brit-picker, so if anyone would like to volunteer please feel free! This is going to be a multi-chapter work and mostly casefic. I'll be posting the chapters as they are finished, but I'm currently planning on at least once a week. (It'll probably be more, but I'm going to be moving in about 8 weeks so I don't want to promise too much and not deliver. haha). In the meantime, please feel free to leave constructive criticism, tell me when I left out a "the", or otherwise say hi. I promise that I'll get back to you if you're not just being a dick for the sake of being a dick. :-) (I know none of you will be, but I feel the disclaimer at the beginning makes sure of it.)_ Enjoy! Hope you like it! If not - I'm sorry.

Chapter 1

"Ouch!"

_Damn door._

John Watson hated his apartment. He hated the tiny landing in front of his door at the top of the stairs. He hated the door that opened out so he always felt on the verge of falling back down the stairs when he had to unlock it with anything in his hands. He hated the beige, bland, empty walls and the bland, dirty, creme-colored carpet. He hated the Formica table and desk and his tiny cot of a bed and the crawlspace of a kitchen. He especially hated his apartment when his leg was bothering him and he was forced to use his cane to navigate the studio with the extra stick of aluminum. Said aluminum monstrosity was what had just caught on the edge of the door, pulling it closed rather more quickly than anticipated and banging John in the kidney with the doorknob in the process. He took a slow breath through his nose, closing his eyes and counting backwards from 5.

The therapist had recommended 10, but what did _she_ know? She was the genius who suggested he go to a _professional manipulator_ for help with his leg, for God's sake. Great idea! Go see one Manipulator for the damage done by another – perfect solution! Besides, John Watson was a doctor. A proper doctor who used things like X-ray machines and antibiotics and scalpels. He preferred hard science to their vague energy-transfer mumbo-jumbo. Magic was magic, in his opinion, even if it had finally gotten mainstream enough to be recognized and studied as what it was: intuitive and learned energy manipulation on a molecular and atomic level. It was cutting edge stuff, to be sure, but John wasn't one to buy into the first generation of a new mobile, so he certainly wasn't going to go to some Manipulator when some good, old fashioned physical therapy would probably work best. He wasn't that desperate...

He looked at the closed, locked door and turned to ponder the four flights of stairs to the street. A long-suffering sigh escaped him as he started down. Well, he wasn't that desperate_yet_. Slowly making his way downstairs, he heard the distant rumble of thunder outside the building and realized his umbrella was leaning against the wall next to the door nearly three floors up. He closed his eyes and counted again. He could either trundle back upstairs for the umbrella, come down again, and be late for work, or he could book it now and hope to beat the rain. Pausing momentarily to ponder his options, John squared his shoulders and continued to the front doors. Even if he didn't beat the rain, what was a little water? It looked like it was just going to be one of those days that threw everything it had at him.

Well, John thought, he was due for a little excitement, even if it was only rain.

"Ouch!"

_Damn door._

Sherlock Holmes scrabbled rather indignantly backwards and away from the door in front of which he was currently on all fours, while, it appeared, a herd of elephants attempted to enter. He rubbed his head as he stood, drawing himself to his full height and glowering at the first person through the door.

"What'd I hit? You haven' been moving anything, have you? This _is _an _active _scene, you know and I'm damned if I'll be removed simply because you're getting cocky. Do you know how hard it is to keep Anderson and the rest from faffing off while you get the room to yourself? Unsupervised, no less! The coroner's people are having a fit that the body hasn't been cut down yet. You know, you can't just keep telling people to- "

Detective Inspector Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard was gearing up for a lecture. Sure sign of stress, though this was far from a singular murder. Something about the circumstances must have had him on edge... perhaps trouble at home? No ring again, but by this point the thing was on and off enough for the ridge line to have disappeared almost completely. Combination of issues then...

Sherlock filed away his observations for later perusal and held up a gloved hand.

"I'll thank you to remember how long I've been at this, Lestrade. I know better than to tamper with evidence, especially when there's so much to tamper with!"

The sarcasm in his tone as he gesticulated to the nearly empty room they were standing in was not lost on the DI. Lestrade pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at the taller man.

"Well, Mr. I-Only-Consult-Because-The-Police-Won't-Have-Me, what are you doing on the floor all the way over here? The deceased's hanging from a rafter over there," he pointed and started walking towards the center of the room, "and the circle, which is what we called you to look at by the way, is under the poor girl's toes. Getting some air from the crack in the door, then?"

Sherlock huffed a scowl in Lestrade's direction, stuffed his balled hands into the coat pockets of his heavy, grey trenchcoat, and stalked over to the DI. He pointed to the young woman – Julia Smalls, 20, student at King's if the discarded purse in the stairwell was to be believed - who was dangling from the ceiling.

"I was ascertaining what I could about the identity of her murderer, no thanks to you and the other officers who had already walked the scene in their work shoes before I arrived. There are two or four sets of footprints which may be from the murderer, depending on how many of your men wear trainers to work... Men's sized 8, 9.5, and two 11's. Now, about this circle," Sherlock started pacing the circumference of the chalk circle drawn on the floor with the girl's hanging toes approximately centered. Her hand was just close enough to reach out and grasp when standing at the edge. Sherlock pondered some writing within the circle on the floor for a moment, until Lestrade cleared his throat quietly but with intent. Sherlock looked up at the noise, but it was obvious he was not really looking at the DI. Eyes darting around the room, he was obviously processing something.

"Yes, ah – the circle! Fascinating," Sherlock snapped his fingers and came back to himself, focusing on Lestrade. "This was certainly a crime perpetrated by someone with Manipulation abilities, though obviously not a professional. Someone with an immense understanding of traditional or archaic practices, possibly linked to early JudeoChristian methodologies. These writings are similar in structure but not content to old exorcism and hoodoo incantations. They were trying to siphon living energy from the deceased – ridiculous really, similar to the idea that one could ascertain an enemy's power by eating their heart, but that didn't stop it being common practice for centuries, did it? So. Obviously a Manipulator, but not a professional, likely unlicensed, and certainly not one up on the latest research!

"The chalk is a limestone base – easily found at most teaching supply stores. Judging by the radius of the circle, I'd imagine his height to be about 1.7 meters. Possible taller, no shorter. He's not a heavy man – footprints would give that away, but not a terribly string man either. I mean, look at her feet. She was obviously dragged and she's what, 7 or 8 stone? Not much of a thing. Now, the rope!"

Lestrade held up the pen he was taking notes with.

"Wait, You say we're dealing with an unlicensed Manipulator here?"

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. He did not appreciate being interrupted in the midst of being brilliant.

"Yes, amongst other things, Lestrade. Do keep up. Now the rope-"

"Woah! We've got a warlock on the loose?!"

Phillip Anderson who had been quietly dusting the door for fingerprints since Lestrade had re-entered the room, stood in alarm and backed out of the room a few steps. Lestrade and Sherlock both leveled piercing glares at the forensic tech.

"Well he's not here _now_, is he Anderson?" Lestrade did an admirable job keeping the annoyance out of his voice. "Now keep at it and do your job! And don't go all ass-over-teakettle down the stairs just cuz somebody says Boo. You know well as I that Manipulators are mostly normal people just like normal people mostly aren't murderers."

He looked back at Sherlock as the smaller man in the door frame hesitantly resumed his dusting.

"Sorry 'bout that," the DI muttered discreetly. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, though he still had a small worry-line creasing the space above his nose. Lestrade waited, but the consulting detective had clearly lost his momentum.

"The, ah... The rope, then?" Lestrade prompted.

"Yes. The. The rope. It's... inconsequential. Standard cotton/nylon blend. Can be bought at nearly any hardware store. Knot is standard handman's noose. One can learn to do it with a little practice and an internet video or as a boyscout. What's interesting is that he hauled her up by it..."

"What?" Lestrade pocketed his pen and notepad to circle the body and stand behind her next to Sherlock. He followed the taller man's pointing finger and noticed the slightest fraying and some splinters in the wood frame of the beam young Miss Smalls was currently dangling from. "Well I'll be damned," Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock smirked.

Lestrade shook his head as the implications sunk in. "Good God, so she was alive when he strung her up? No broken neck – just let her asphyxiate... what kind of monster does something like this?"

"Someone without the upper body strength to lift her without a lever, I expect," relied Sherlock coolly. "I'm sure it was conveniently rationalized by the perpetrator as better for the absorption of their energy or some such nonsense, but that'd be the crux of it. Lack of ability. Also, not a skilled enough Manipulator to lift her that way. Pitiful, really. She's a slight thing."

"You mean to tell me hoisting fifty kilos and keeping it suspended in midair is supposed to be child's play?" Lestrade scoffed. Sherlock assessed the DI deviously.

"How much do you weigh, Lestrade?"

"Oh, now, don't you be getting on me about my weight. I can still run down a pickpocket in the Underground faster than – "

Rolling his eyes at the Inspector, Sherlock pointed vaguely at the man's feet and lazily raised his finger. Greg Lestrade was now hovering approximately 6cm off the floor, cutting off his diatribe with a surprised little squeak. It wasn't much – not enough for Anderson to notice from the door with Sherlock blocking his view, but it was certainly enough to throw his balance completely akimbo. Doing his best not to flail indignantly, Lestrade looked at Sherlock with a combination of panic, fury, and acquiescence. Sherlock's smirk became more of a tight smile.

"Point?" he asked.

"Taken," Lestrade ground out.

"Good."

Sherlock turned and strode purposefully towards the door, dropping Lestrade unceremoniously and leaving him to look as though he'd just tripped over nothing in the middle of the floor.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?"

Sherlock paused at the doorway, his back still to the room. "I need to talk to someone who knows about Manipulators gone...," he looked down at Anderson, still hunched next to the doorknob, "how did you so elegantly put it? Gone _warlock_." The slight dripped with sarcasm and forensic tech glared back at the trenched specter above him. He stood, apparently not in the mood to be bullied by the consulting detective today.

"Gonna go to one of those drug dens, then? Get all hopped up? Find one to pump you high as a kite, _then_ bring them in?"

Sherlock straightened to his full hight and set his jaw. "Bygones are bygones, aren't they Phil? After all, I forget when you make cock-ups of crime scenes your superiors have to call me in to fix. Besides, there is no hint that drugs were a factor in this-"

"You know what the difference between a junkie and an ex-junkie is, Holmes? One. Bad. Day."

"The willpower and fortitude needed to ignore addiction is something I will never even consider a feeble intellect like yours could possibly comprehend, considering you can't even dust for fingerprints with competence," Sherlock bit out acidly, breathing deeply and glaring daggers. Anderson went in for the kill.

"You're probably on a first name basis with half a dozen unlicensed freaks we could bring in right now but you just don't want to loose your _dealers-_"

"ANDERSON!"

Both heads turned towards the DI immediately upon his roar. Anderson, admonished, met his supervisor's eyes for a moment before muttering an apology to the floor. Sherlock was still fuming. Anderson may not pick up on it right away, but Lestrade could feel the static in the room. He very much suspected that, were he to try to touch the wool trench draped over the consulting detective's shoulders, he would receive a substantial electric shock.

"So," He clapped his hands in front of him to break the tension and started walking through the door, putting himself between the two men. "Where to?"

He kept walking and didn't relax until he heard Sherlock's long, purposeful footsteps fall in behind him. For his part, Sherlock didn't even spare the shrinking Anderson a parting glare.

"I'd like to start at one of those clinics for unknown Manipulators and people who have had, ah, accidents involving erroneous energy work," Sherlock stated flatly. He didn't want to talk about his exchange with Phillip Anderson with anyone, specifically not with Lestrade, and his lack of control in that tiny room was nearly as infuriating having let the annoying little man get under his skin in the first place.

"The Amok Clinics?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a flash of a smile. Not only was the DI allowing the incident to pass without comment, but the colloquialism for the medical practices who dealt with the fallout from "magic run amok" was unexpected.

"Well, Detective Inspector, if even the police force has started referring to them as such, I suppose yes – we're going to an Amok clinic. If memory serves correctly, there's one not far from here."

He reached the street and hailed a cab, the black car sidling up next to him like it had been waiting.

"Shouldn't we take the squad car?" Lestrade asked, hovering undecided on the curb.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know I won't ride in a squad car, now either get in or follow."

Lestrade sighed, and looked up at the dark, overcast sky. Thunder boomed closer and louder than it had any right to when he hadn't heard any inside the building. He rolled his eyes right back at the consultant, and climbed into the back of the cab.

"Leeds Street Accidental Manipulations and Urgent Care Clinic, please", Sherlock told the cabbie. The car pulled away from the curb as a sprinkle of rain began to fall.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Today was going along surprisingly well for John Watson, as far as days went now. He'd managed to make it to work before the rain started, the cute girl at the reception desk had smiled at him on the way in, and only four people had glanced meaningfully at the cane, winced, and hurriedly looked away. And it was nearly 10am, which meant his first break was coming up. The woman in front of him whose hand he was bandaging was in her early thirties and prattling on about something to do with a bar and her best friend, but John's thoughts were mostly on whether or not to have two sugars in his tea or if he should start going for just cream since he wasn't exercising as much as he used to.

"- then I said I swear to you, I'll hit you with this bottle! I wasn't serious of course, but I get goofy when I've been drinking, but then I though I'd hit it on the counter and make it scary, but it just, like, exploded, and then Brian came in and-"

"Mmhmm, Angela, was it?" He had to stop her before the bottle idea she had planted in his head became too tempting.

"Yeah."

"Do you remember what I told you about how to take care of this?" John gestured to her now-stitched-and-wrapped left hand.

"Uh... no water... no washing... for two days? Then be super careful? And come back in a week and you'll take them out?"

Everything Angela said ended in a question and John had just about had enough of the cutsey act she was trying. He'd just stitched up a three inch gash from a drunken brawl, for God's sake. He put on his best professional doctor smile and nodded.

"That's right. And if I'm not here, I'm sure the Nurse can do it. Now, if you could head out to the front desk they'll check you out."

Angela got up as daintily as her microskirt would let her. She smiled. "Thank you, Doctor," she sing-songed, loitering a little by the door. John got up and ushered her the rest of the way into the hallway.

"You're welcome," he said. "Goodbye."

And shut the door.

He'd just got back to the desk to finish Angela's paperwork when there was a commotion just outside the door. Rubbing his hands over his face, he prepared for another onslaught of the drunk and/or disorderly when a surprisingly formal knock – and loud - sounded on the door.

"Y- Yes, come in!" John couldn't imagine who would be coming to see him at work. And none of the nurses he worked with knocked like that. Even the tough guys that helped out with the more manic accident victems had developed the soft, insistent knock of the medical profession. This almost sounded like an EMT of perhaps the -

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, NSY. Sorry about the intrusion..."

Well that explained the knock and the disturbance outside.

The Inspector was peeking around the door, obviously attempting to speak with John while blocking the rest of the entry with his body. His hair was salt-and-pepper silver and plastered to his head with water from the rain. His tan leather jacket was wet as well, and he had the look about him of someone who is in the process of doing something they very much do not want to do. John tried his best to look friendly and nonthreatening as he stood and tried to see around the silver head and solid shoulders rooted in the doorframe.

"Hello, Inspector. Is there something the matter? Would you like to, uh, come in? All the way, I mean?"

Inspector Lestrade cast a worried glance over his shoulder before letting go of the doorknob and taking a hesitant step into the room. "Sure... So, are you Doctor John-"

As soon as his Lestrade's hand stopped holding the door to Dr. Watson's office slightly closed, it burst open the rest of the way and a dervish of tall, dark hair and wet, woolen jacket swept into the room. Sherlock shook his head and tore his hands through his hair, sending a mist of water droplets everywhere. He shrugged off his wet coat and hung it over the plastic bin on the door meant for patient charts before turning and whirling upon his audience.

"Tut tut, Inspector, who else would it be? Keeping me out in the hall like some sort of pariah..."

He turned to face the Doctor, who was using the back of his hand to wipe water droplets from his face, and extended a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. I hear you have a special interest in accidental and malicious exposure to Manipulation effects. Excellent to meet you, fascinating work. Tell me - do you have a few moments to answer a few questions? Wonderful!"

Having apparently taken John's confused handshake and silence as an affirmative, the consulting detective made himself comfortable on the edge of the examination table. He looked at Lestrade and John with an expectant look on his face, and gestured to the doctor's chair and a stool in the corner with intent. "Well?"

John just blinked at the strange, wet creature who had so completely invaded his space. The Inspector, however, seized upon Sherlock's momentary silence and stillness to proceed as though nothing had happened and there wasn't a mad, shaggy, dark-suited presence in the room. John felt for a moment like he was in a Doctor Who episode. The DI extended his hand for a handshake.

"Good morning, Doctor," he began amicably, "I'm Greg Lestrade."

"Doctor John Watson, how do you do?"

Lestrade smiled a genuine, lopsided smile and John found himself relaxing despite himself. Both parties found their seats as Lestrade continued:

"I'm alright. I'd be better if I wasn't following this one around all over looking for your clinic." He let out a chuckle as Sherlock huffed.

"I said I knew it was around here _somewhere_, I never claimed to have exact geographic coordinates."

"It's called a GPS, Sherlock! It's on your bloody phone..." Lestrade dismissed his companion with a small shake of his head. "Anyway, Dr. Watson. We were looking for you, or someone like you, to answer a few questions regarding a body and some extenuating circumstances surrounding it. Would you be willing to give us a hand? Seems there are some things even the great Sherlock Holmes isn't an expert in."

Sherlock huffed again and crossed his arms and legs petulantly as he leveled a glare at the Inspector. John couldn't help but find the entire situation amusing, though there was obviously some seriousness to the matter. After all, they said they had found a body?

"I'm sorry you had trouble finding it. I'm happy to assist if I can," John said, "but I'm not sure what help I'll be. I don't have any sort of specialty in forensics or anything. I'm just a -"

"Don't you dare say 'just a medic', Doctor Watson, we both know that's not specifically true." Sherlock Holmes leveled a calculating start at the doctor, who returned it, slightly taken aback.

"Pardon?"

"You! Just a medic – not likely. Steady temperament, even at the unexpected arrival of the police, but a tremor in the left hand while you sit. Your computer mouse is on the left so – left handed. You weren't originally a General Practitioner, now were you? New shoes, pants and shirt but an old belt that's seen quite a bit of wear is utilitarian. All your body language screams military, sure, so you've been recently discharged – easy enough to gather. But you've been doodling on the margins of patient charts. Not very professional, but something to pass the time. You're bored, bored out of your skull. So why aren't you working at an A&E or something like that? Cane over to the right of the desk indicates severe injury that impedes movement, but you didn't need it when you were standing still when we entered so indications are the injury is psychological, not neurological. You tensed when I asked you about your work with the effects of Manipulation, indicating you're uncomfortable with the subject despite seeking work around it. Psychological and physical trauma coupled with the subconscious backlash against the idea of Manipulators and the reports of the tech and implants those terrorist cells are using to fast-lane recruits in North Africa and the Middle East to Top Tier Manipulator status and it's easy to deduce yours is anything but a regular field injury. Now, two questions. Were you special ops or deployed with an ops mission? I feel like I'd be getting a phone call any minute now if you were special ops, but one never knows. And second..." Sherlock leaned into the conversation, elbows on knees, fingers steepled, and rested his chin on his hands. "Was the shoulder a bullet or a blade? I can never tell without looking."

John gaped.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and prepared to be thrown out.

Sherlock simply considered the man in front of him. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like he had just been having a conversation about the weather, or perhaps when to have tea. Lestrade knew better and knew Sherlock was bracing for the inevitable punch to the nose. The lanky detective looked at the floor and subtly steeled himself when Dr. Watson blinked heavily and shook his head with a small, disbelieving chuckle.

But, instead of raging, or tossing them both out, or throwing a (justified) swing, John simply smiled and the small chuckle turned into a legitimate laugh.

"That was amazing!"

Sherlock's head shot back up to the doctor, face confused, studying him for signs of deceit. "What?"

John laughed again. "A bullet. And I was embedded, but don't go telling the staff. I said that was amazing! You took in all that, just from watching and listening. Wow! I mean, wow. That's..." he looked at the consulting detective, who had strange mixture of disbelief, curiosity, and amusement on his face. "What is it?"

Sherlock straightened his posture and made an effort to look aloof. He cleared his throat, definitely _not_ nervously. "It's just, that's not what people usually say."

"And what do they usually say?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Piss off."

"Or they punch him in the nose," Lestrade offered, lopsided grin in place again.

"Yes, thank you Lestrade. I almost forgot," Sherlock responded archly, before returning his attention to the doctor in front of him. "You said it's a bullet wound? And you were embedded with an ops unit? Fascinating! Did I miss anything?" His enthusiasm was almost juvenile, and John couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, but I'm not kidding when I say don't pass that around. Doctor-detective confidentiality or something, alright? Everthing else was pretty spot on. The leg's a remnant of a... uh... an _unpleasant_ time in the hands of some very bad people. The bullet was the only thing that kept me from losing my sanity, even if it did derail the whole surgeon path. But hey! Now I'm singularly qualified to deal with injuries similar to mine. Burnt out neural passages aren't the only thing unlicensed Manipulators end up inflicting on people. But I suppose you two know that, what with the whole... murder... thing?"

Lestrade perked up. "Yes! Yes, Holmes here had some questions involving... ah...," he wrinkled his nose and thought before turning to his younger companion. "What did you want to ask again?"

"I have some questions as to whether or not it's possible to have one's Manipulation abilities decrease over time. Due to illness, or perhaps disuse? Also, have you ever heard of a successful instance where energy is drained from one entity to another? Could this be done using any tech you've encountered or via rogue Manipulator behavior?"

John thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose it'd be possible for abilities to decrease over time for a number of reasons. Disuse, certainly, but also anything that impairs cognitive function or focus. Long-term drug habits... most of them anyway. Short term illness with a high fever or a long term illness like Parkinson's or certain cancers would definitely effect accuracy and, eventually, overall ability." He paused, considered Sherlock carefully. "Are you talking about a siphon? Or are you talking about one person using another person like a living battery?"

"Similar to a battery but, well, drained until they're dead," Sherlock clarified. He considered. "So, yes – exactly like a battery."

John shuddered. "No, I've never heard of that happening. Not even in the juicer dens where they pump people full of extra energy, and you'd think that would be the place for it. So, no. I don't even know if it's possible, honestly, though there's a first time for everything I suppose."

"Okay, a few more questions..."

Part of John – the rational, normal part of him – couldn't believe he was having a casual conversation with a police detective and some sort of observational genius about murder in the neighborhood. It was the part of him that wanted to thank them for their time and show them to the door, ushering them out of his nice, normal life forever. John promptly told that part of his brain to put a sock in it and settled down to answer however many questions they needed.

The front desk ended up holding his calls for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon.

A little after 1PM, Detective Inspector Lestrade stood up and stretched his arms above his head.

"Dr, Watson, it's been a pleasure," he said warmly, extending his hand for another handshake. "I believe that's all we need from you. Do you mind if we keep in touch, in case we need some additional information?"

"Inspector." John shook the proffered hand and nodded with enthusiasm. "I'd be happy to help with anything I can."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who seemed very comfortable where he was lying on the examination table, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes darting around the ceiling. "Holmes," the DI muttered, nudging the man's shoe with his elbow. No response.

"_Holmes," _another nudge. Still nothing.

"_Sherlock!"_

"What?! What?! What could you possibly want, Lestrade?!" He sat up and glared at the man tapping his shoe like he was something distasteful stuck to the bottom of his sole.

"We have to go. This man's got other business to attend to."

"All right, go on. I'll be here until I'm done, then I'll be at Baker Street." He lay back down again. Lestrade took a breath and started to bluster.

"Now see here, Holmes..."

John interrupted the row-in-making with a soft hand on the Inspector's shoulder. "It's fine, he can stay here for a bit. I need to get some lunch anyway," he offered with a friendly smile. Lestrade looked grateful, and a little guilty.

"Sorry... he gets like this. Bloody brilliant but a damn nuisance he can make of himself sometimes. If he's any trouble, well, you have my card. Give me a call..."

"I'm sure he'll be fine. He appears to be a grown man. I'll call you if I think of anything that may help," John assured the DI as he ushered him to the door. "It was excellent to meet you, Greg."

Once outside Dr. Watson's office, Lestrade appeared to visibly relax. "Good to meet you too, mate. Cheers!" And with that, the affable man turned and scurried to the exit of the clinic to hail a cab. John turned back to the prone form on his examination table. He picked up his cane, utilized to walk Lestrade to the hall, and poked the bottom of the man's shoe.

"Oi! Chinese or Thai?"

Sherlock raised his head, apparently confused at the offer.

"Chinese or Thai?" John repeated. "You can use my office, but I'm famished and nothing else delivers. I'm not leaving you alone in here, and I'm not skipping lunch. So. Chinese. Or Thai."

"I don't eat while I'm on a case," replied Sherlock lazily, resuming his repose.

"Well that's too bad," John responded cagily. "Because either you eat with me or I'll be forced to use you as a table."

This got the consulting detective's attention. He sat up and assessed the doctor as John picked up the phone and started dialing the Chinese Palace.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try Me. Hel-Hello! Yes, I'd like to put in an order for delivery for John Watson? Yes... yes, that's the place. Excellent! I'd like an order of the chicken pad thai annnd..."

John raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question and the man on the examination table held his gaze in a stubbornness stalemate for a moment before huffing and hurling himself back onto the table with a mutter of "Steamed dumplings." John smiled in triumph, though he tried to hide the change in his voice over the phone.

"- and an order of steamed dumplings... Nope, that's it! Excellent, thanks! Bye!" John turned to Sherlock. "Food will be here in twenty."

"Hmm," was the only reply John got from the prone figure on his table.

John rolled his eyes and turned his chair back to his computer. He shot an email to the front desk informing them that he had a difficult patient and would notify them when he was ready to accept another as it may be a while. He looked behind him. If the man's eyes weren't open, he'd have sworn the fellow was asleep. Oh well, he thought, gives me time to catch up with some paperwork.

By the time Chinese arrived and John had retrieved it from the lobby, Sherlock must have reached some sort of conclusion because their late lunch and the rest of the afternoon passed in surprisingly friendly conversation.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Day's end came quickly.

After an unexpectedly engaging lunch, Sherlock spent most of the afternoon taking Dr. Watson through all manner of lines of questioning. To tell the truth, John couldn't have followed the consulting detective's train of thought if he had been paid to try, but at least all the queries appeared to have at least a tangential connections to Ms. Smalls and her killer. Sherlock asked about everything from observations of deviance involved in the injuries John saw versus pure accidents to symptoms of specific maladies and their effect on the personality and psychology of energy-users versus common physiology. Their conversation drifted to the new research being done on the differences in physiology between Manipulators and "mundanes", as Sherlock referred to everyone else. It was an exceedingly technical discussion to which Dr. Watson was pleased to discover his companion had nearly as much to contribute as he did. They discussed the physical profile Sherlock had composed of the killer and cross-referenced it with previous patients at the clinic and clinics in the area.

Once given a physical description, John finally felt they had a concrete starting point and started calling in members of the staff and asking each a few questions about the mystery-man. The short questioning sessions of the staff eventually devolved into John trying valiantly to keep the brief interactions on target while Sherlock muttered invariably-inappropriate observations under his breath. The doctor eventually had to dismiss their guest before he dissolved into a fit of giggles or badly-pretended offense on the poor staff member's behalf. Sherlock, usually single-minded when it came to solving a puzzle such as this murder presented to him, found himself deviating to an unprecedented degree simply to hear the muttered, giggled "Brilliant"s and "Astounding... Terrible, but astounding"s from the doctor seated across from him. If he stopped to consider the situation, he might even say he was having a damned good time – but Sherlock was never one for self-reflection. Even after exhausting the pool of uninterviewed staff members and eliciting promises from all of them to keep an eye and ear out for the person they were looking for, the two men stayed seated in Dr. Watson's office. The conversation reached a natural lull and John looked at his watch.

"Damn," he muttered. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and John held up his wrist guiltily. "It's after 5," he said sheepishly. "I suppose they all heard us laughing and left without saying goodbye." He started packing up his things and Sherlock stood stiffly.

"I should hardly think they were able to discern what we were discussing," he sniffed.

"I highly doubt most people consider murder as chuckle-worthy as we've been this afternoon."

"Perhaps that is the real reason none of your coworkers stopped by before leaving," Sherlock considered, drifting over to his coat, still draped on the back of the door, and swirling it dramatically around his shoulders. He took in John's confused expression and and raised his eyebrows in emphasis. "Perhaps they're put off by your newly-presented gallows sense of humor."

John winced at the pun – they _would _be talking about a hanged girl – but couldn't keep the huff of laughter completely stifled. "You're being ridiculous," was all he said with a small shake of the head.

"I'm a ridiculous man, Dr. Watson," Sherlock stated simply and opened the door for the the man standing behind him.

"Noted. Ta," he laughed and started walking down the hall towards the dark waiting room. "And call me John, Sherlock. If people start hearing my friends call me 'Doctor' they'll think I really am insufferable."

Sherlock stiffened behind the doctor's retreating form and blinked rapidly. The door he was pulling shut with slightly more force than he was intending, and he stood still staring at his hand wrapped around the doorknob. _If people start hearing my friends call me..._

"Sherlock?"

The tone in John's voice was amused with just a slight underpinning of anxiety. Oh dear. How long had he been standing there staring at his own hand? It wasn't his fault – his brain had just stuttered over itself in a way he had never experienced, caught on the utterly incomprehensible notion of having somehow earned this doctor's casually-stated friendship in a day. He probably looked like he was going to have a panic attack. Sherlock shook himself minutely, schooled his expression, and turned to walk briskly to where the doctor was staring at him quizzically from near the front doors.

"Apologies... John." He twitched a smile, and brushed past the man who followed him outside and set about locking the front doors behind him.

Sherlock had managed to say the man's name like it was any other, though that didn't dim the childlike impulse to grin and jump in the air at the idea that someone had called him a friend. As Dr. Watson – John – locked the clinic's doors, the detective took a moment to turn towards the street. He took a deep breath, huffed it out in what could almost be interpreted as a silent, hysterical laugh, grinned to himself for a moment, and pushed away the voice that told him that John would find him just as off-putting as everyone else eventually. Because, after a solid day of each other's company, John didn't find Sherlock infuriating to the point of violence and Sherlock didn't find John dull to the point of irritation.

Because John was Sherlock's friend.

Sherlock thought he'd find his current state of emotionality pathetic if he was the type for self-reflection - but Sherlock was never one for self-reflection. He turned back towards the clinic.

John turned from the front door and smiled openly at Sherlock, raising his eyebrows expectantly. The detective stared levelly and John looked at the sidewalk.

"Well, I suppose I'd better get home," he said, though he neither shifted his weight nor moved his cane.

Sherlock nodded, though he didn't move either. "I suppose so. I've got research to do for the case..."

John breathed in suddenly and rummaged in his pocked, pulling out his mobile. "Number?" he asked abruptly, unlocking the phone, fiddling with the screen, and handing it to Sherlock. The detective felt an entirely unfamiliar warm sensation under his breastbone when he took the phone and noticed his first and last name were already input under a new contact. Good god, he's going insane. Insanity or not, he entered in his contact information and his address – because why not – and returned the phone. John accepted it with a bright smile and Sherlock couldn't help reflecting a slightly dimmer version back.

"Excellent! I'll call you and you'll have mine," John said, still not making to move in any direction.

"I prefer to text, but the result is the same," Sherlock responded airily. They stood in silence for a moment. "Well, I'll be off... the case and all that. I'm sure you've got some plan or other to get to this evening. Do try not to trip over your cane in the tube, I'd very much like to keep you around. Everyone else is frightfully dull." He pulled his blue scarf out of his coat pocket and wrapped it around his neck as the night wind began to pick up. It certainly was not because, as he reviewed his last few sentences, he had to resist the urge to melt into a puddle of embarrassment there on the sidewalk.

John laughed and shook his head. "No, no plans. Just me and the cane... and dinner. You wouldn't- No." He licked his bottom lip and readjusted his messenger bag. "Good luck with your research, Sherlock. Text me if you have any questions or, uh, need help. Or, you know, if you want to grab a pint." He inhaled deeply and extended his hand to shake Sherlock's warmly. "It really was excellent meeting you. I'll be honest, I wasn't sure if I'd ever meet someone interesting outside the Army again. So... thanks. For being interesting. I'll see you around." John smiled again at Sherlock in that open, admiring way and suddenly the idea of going home to Baker Street for a night of solitary research, experimentation, and playing the violin wasn't nearly as appealing as it had been a few moments ago.

But John Watson was walking away. He moved surprisingly fast for someone with limited mobility in their dominant leg. No matter – Sherlock had a good five inches on the compact army doctor and strode after him with purpose. He fell into step with the smaller man about a block down from the clinic and spoke without turning, making John start a bit.

"I would, actually," he stated cryptically.

"Pardon?"

"You were going to ask if I wouldn't like to have some dinner. I would. Well... I won't eat, but I find myself enjoying the idea of the company. Obviously you would appreciate it as well, considering your reluctance to part. In fact, if you're amenable, I'd appreciate your help with my research. There's a delightful Italian restaurant close to my flat – what is your opinion on homemade pasta?" Sherlock didn't wait for the doctor and veered to the curb to flag down a cab. A friendly black taxi pulled up to the walk nearly immediately.

If John was rattled or surprised, he hid it well. Instead, he considered the taller man for a moment before climbing into the back of the cab. "This pasta better be pretty good if I'm heading across town for it," he teased dryly as the detective climbed into the back seat behind him.

"Angelo's Italian on Baker Street please," Sherlock told the cabbie, then turned to look out the window. "Of course it is, I don't do pro-bono work for just any restaurateur."

John shook his head and smiled, wondering just what he was getting himself into. He had a sneaking suspicion that he was currently watching any vestige of his dreadfully dull post-war existence woosh by the cab windows, but he couldn't be less bothered by it. The strange, trenchcoated oddity beside him was the most interesting, engaging, stimulating person he'd met since coming home. Besides, judging from Sherlock's reaction at the clinic, John wasn't the only person who was both surprised and thrilled to have made a friend.

They pulled up in front of the restaurant and Sherlock paid as John maneuvered himself and his cane out of the cab. He walked in and started addressing the friendly-looking man at the front about a table when Sherlock walked through the door behind him and John was temporarily forgotten by his host.

"SHERLOCK Holmes! Excellent! Excellent!" the man brushed by John and embraced the suddenly-ramrod-stiff Sherlock warmly. Extricating himself firmly but politely, the detective gestured to John.

"Yes, hello, Angelo. We'd like a table, please."

Angelo, who now realized who John was with, turned back to the doctor and shook his hand exuberantly. "Ohhh, well _hello_! Good Sherlock finally brought someone here! Excellent, excellent, I'll find you a good table." The large Italian leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, though more than loud enough for Sherlock to hear, "He's slow to warm up to people, but give three dates at least. It's always the quiet ones, eh? Eh?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and grabbed some menus as John's ears flushed red. "Follow me, this way."

John followed as quickly as he could with his heart rate suddenly high enough to be mistaken for a prey mammal. "Really, I'm not... we're just..." It became apparent Angelo wasn't paying attention and he sighed. "Thanks," he mumbled and sat down, burying his burning face in the menu until the friendly Italian had retreated. Sherlock sat down across from him and did not pick up his menu. After a moment to compose himself, John put down the menu and considered Sherlock who was studying him from across the table.

"I'm not... are you..." He was interrupted as Angelo suddenly reappeared with a candle, which he placed on the table and lit. John and Sherlock both stared in a slightly stunned silence at the flickering flame between them. Sherlock was aghast at Angelo's supposedly-helpful actions, concluding that coming here had been a terrible idea. He was never eating pasta again. Italy must be dreadful. He would throw away the pizza takeaway menus once he got home. Everything was terrible.

John met Sherlock's deer-in-headlights gaze over the table and huffed a laugh at the absurdity of it all. Sherlock's face shifted from a frozen, stricken mask to agitated confusion at the sound and John's small sound of amusement bubbled into a full-blown belly laugh. "Do you-" He stopped, trying to catch his breath. "Do you take all your dates here?" he managed, still laughing so hard tears started building at the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock stared, blinked, processed the question, and slowly burst into his own fit of embarrassed laughter. He put his head in his hand, elbow propped on the table, and laughed into the tablecloth.

"Oh yes," he replied as sarcastically as his giggles would allow. "That's me, a new conquest every week. An endless stream of lovers, all vetted by Italian ex-cons and doddering Inspectors. Running about with me to murder sites and -" he snorted, which only sent John into a new fit of laughter. "Murder sites and drug dens."

"Asking them out by compelling them into cabs," John offered, playing along and still giggling.

"Cleaning up after interesting experimental results."

"Helping you research murders?"

"Oh certainly," Sherlock nodded mock-seriously. "Research is the most important aspect of any romantic entanglement."

They both managed mock-serious expressions for a full few seconds before breaking into a fit again. It was several minuted before they got themselves under control enough for John to order some pasta carbonarra – Sherlock thought maybe pasta and Italian culture in general was no longer to be avoided in perpetuity – and settled into some comfortable silence until the food arrived. The pasta was delicious, and John insisted on setting some in front of his companion on a small bread plate despite his protests.

"Really, John, I already ate dumplings today. We haven't been acquainted for long, but I assure you I'm more than capable of functioning on that for quite a while."

"Well that's too bad, because I'm not going to eat that bit anyway. It's got crumbs from your bread plate all over it now."

"Well that's just absurd. It's pasta and bread – they're essentially the same food."

"You're absurd, now eat something instead of picking apart the bread bits and putting them into your water."

"I'm attempting to ascertain the differences in time it takes for the different breads to disintegrate."

"You're playing."

"_Experimenting."_

"Experiment by trying the carbonarra – it's fantastic! You were right about this place..." And so on throughout the meal. Angelo was relatively easy to ignore, lurking as he was in a corner and periodically catching John's eye to give him a thumbs-up, and soon enough the two were back outside and on their way to Sherlock's flat.


	4. Chapter 4

221B Baker Street was very close indeed to Angelo's Italian, and the two men made their way to the flat without incident after dinner. John appreciated that Sherlock didn't even appear to consider calling a cab for the short walk, and simply set off from the front of the restaurant expecting the man with the cane to keep up or speak up. It had been a while since someone John spent time with ignored his lame leg as much as he wished he could.

The flat itself was unassuming and classic as they approached, with an assuming little cafe to the right and what appeared to be more residential buildings to the left. It was an old building, the door was dark - nearly-black - painted wood, and the knocker on the front door sat slightly askew. The foyer was dark and narrow but more homey and inviting than constricting or claustrophobic. They made their way up the stairs and stopped on the first landing opening, hanging their coats and making their way through the unlocked door to Sherlock's living room. John noticed there was another flight of stairs to his right and briefly wondered who was living in all of these relatively open flats with his strange new friend. The converted Victorian almost reminded him of an old movie about a fraternity house he'd seen once. He asked Sherlock about the other residents.

"Others?" Sherlock looked like someone had surprised him with the smell of bad fish. "Oh, no. It's just myself and Mrs. Hudson – the landlady – downstairs. She keeps trying to rent the flat in the basement but it's far too damp for her to ever seriously accept tenants." Sherlock gestured broadly as he busied himself around the open space of the den. He was obviously a man unaccustomed to company, and the room appeared a testament to the unique type of bachelorhood he appeared to enjoy. John felt content to observe with interest as the spindly man attempted to casually clear off the layers of papers, books, clothing, teacups, what appeared to be labeled brick samples, and other detritus from nearly every surface of the living room. "There's the room upstairs, but it's hardly a flat in itself, and I make sure to be performing some kind of foul-smelling or loud work whenever someone comes to see it. I find the idea of some idiot having access to my kitchen both inconvenient and unpleasant. Besides, I need all of the storage the refrigerator offers..." he trailed off, apparently looking for a place to relocate a stack of papers in his hand. Casually, he grabbed a butterfly knife from its place lying across the top of a lampshade, flipped it open, and stabbed the papers through the center and into the wooden door arch between the living room and kitchen. John blinked in surprise, but was somehow less shocked at this unorthodox filing method than he was at his own appreciation of the innovative use of space. He decided to ignore it, as well as the horned animal (Bull? Goat? Ox?) skull mounted on the wall which appeared to be both literally wearing headphones and figuratively staring at him no matter which direction he walked. He made his way to the recently-cleared sofa and sat, leaning his cane against the arm.

"You like cooking? I'm surprised, considering how much you've protested food today."

Sherlock looked at the doctor imperiously. "Of course I don't cook – why would you possibly think that?"

John was confused. "You just said you needed the whole fridge for storage..."

Sherlock shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Oh! No, no, it's not for food! I need a cool environment for most of my specimens and Mrs. Hudson won't let me convert the downstairs apartments into a positive temperature cold chamber." He gave a long-suffering sigh. "So I do as I must. Though I admit it would be so much easier if Molly could just send over the entire cadaver instead of smuggling me bits... No matter."

"... bits?"

As taken aback as John had been about the revelation that he had just gone home with a man who apparently yearned for a biological-forensics lab in his own basement, he had to stifle a smile as he watched Sherlock replay his last few sentences mentally to scan for what may have caused John's tone to waver as it did. Sherlock pursed his lips. Well, it was a good run, he thought. Made it all day before a slip-up big enough to drove the interesting doctor away screaming. He raised his chin and took a breath.

"Yes, _John,_" he explained with a bit of bitterness in his tone. "Bits. Hands, feet, hearts, livers, the occasional head... I _am_ a detective, after all. And I assure you, they're not being used for anything else by the time I acquire them." He turned his back to the doctor on the sofa and stalked into the kitchen. He wanted tea and definitely was _not_ running away so he wouldn't have to watch his new acquaintance get up to excuse himself and leave. Sure enough, he heard the doctor shift and grab his cane, making his way across the living area. But instead of heading toward the door, it appeared he was... following Sherlock into the kitchen?

John saw Sherlock walk into the kitchen and got up to follow. He was a doctor, after all, and if the detective was doing any strange experiments on human remains, well... so long as it wasn't terribly illegal, John couldn't help but be a little curious. Sherlock turned in surprise as John pulled up a chair at the table-cum-lab-area and looked at the taller man expectantly. The doctor smiled that open smile of his and shrugged.

"Well color me interested, if you feel like show and tell," he stated simply. "Though if you were heading in here for tea, I wouldn't say no to that either." He smiled and Sherlock experienced that uncomfortable, blooming, warm feeling underneath his sternum again. He blinked but made sure not to smile, though the side of his lips quirked up momentarily before he could catch it.

"Well, all I have now is a liver which is waiting for some experiments with different energy level conductivity when I get the chance... but I do have tea." Sherlock clicked on the electric kettle and looked at the closed fridge. "No... hm. No milk, though. I always forget something."

John smiled. "You forgot..." he giggled and Sherlock looked at him sharply. John cleared his throat and schooled his expression into a less-mirthful one. "Sorry, it's just... you don't seem like you miss anything. It's-" his eyebrows knot together for a moment and he considered his words. "It's just unexpected. And ordinary."

Sherlock straightened himself to his full height. "I am hardly ordinary." John put up his hands in surrender.

"I never said you were. Hardly, indeed! It's just nice to know you're normal enough to actually want to... hang out? With me, I mean. I'm nothing if not ordinary, after all," he said ruefully.

Sherlock scoffed. "Ordinary. Bah." The matter no longer worth his attention, he pulled out sugar and teabags, heaping two spoonfulls into his own empty cup and gestured the question to John.

"Oh, no thanks. I don't take sugar."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Oh, you're one of _those_. Now there's _certainly_ no way you can convince me you're ordinary." He shook his head and muttered, "Tea without sugar, what kind of Briton are you..."

John smiled. "One with a medical degree," he challenged. His reply was an eyeroll as Sherlock set the tea down in front of him and sat down at the table himself. The doctor blew on his tea and looked at the detective. "So," he began, "what is this research you need help with?"

Sherlock's face lit up and he began rummaging around on the table. "Oh! We need to find translations for the inscriptions written in the circle under Julia Smalls' feet. Let's start with Catholic exorcism traditions and Kabbalah papyri and work our way out from there..."

Tea apparently forgotten, the consulting detective started whirling around the rooms, pulling things from bookshelves and under piles of newspapers and depositing them in front of John. The doctor, happily sipping his tea, put one of the first books he'd been presented under his arm and made his way over to the couch to start reading. It was going to be a long night, and John felt more at content than he had in years.

The first light of morning was peeking through the curtains when they finally finished translating the strange writing beneath the hanged girls' feet. What they discovered was not promising in the least, however. Sherlock, who had at some point around 3:30am had disappeared into the back room and re-emerged sans suit and jacket with only some pajama bottoms, an undershirt, and a dressing gown on, was currently sprawled across the sofa. John was sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, dodgy leg and bare feet propped up on another chair across from where he was sitting. He had a book open in his lap, hair sticking up in all directions from running his hand through it all night. His top few shirt buttons undone to show his t-shirt, and his sleeves were rucked up to the elbows. He would have thought he looked a right mess, but instead he was unconscious and snoring softly in that way people do when they fall asleep in strange positions. Sherlock was in the depths of his mind, trying with no small amount of growing frustration to decipher the meaning of the words they had translated.

_With this sacrifice, perform the will of the mind. _(Well that's pretty standard)

_Bond bone of mind with mind of bone _(perhaps skull and brain? Spirit? Perhaps, perhaps...)

_The last shall be of use. _(like a siphon? No, that wasn't possible. Translation of the last word unclear, bother. Chalk was smudged with blood, crime scene pictures were bloody useless.)

John moved suddenly and whimpered in his sleep. Sherlock, startled by the sound and suddenly reminded he was not alone in the flat, focused on the sleeping form across his armchairs. He studied the man for a moment, wondering how reflective his hair would be of different light spectrums, until the doctor abruptly winced in his sleep and tossed his head violently back and forth. Concern sparked through Sherlock and he rolled off the sofa and landed on the floor, scrambling in a rather undignified manner up and across the living area to pull up quickly next to the armchair. Now that he was here, he was at somewhat of a loss as to what to do. The doctor was obviously suffering from a mild form of night terror – likely stemming from the traumatic events surrounding his injuries – but Sherlock wasn't sure how he would react if awoken abruptly. The detective was familiar enough with being punched in the face, and didn't feel terribly keen on reacquainting himself with the experience at 5am on a Saturday.

He settled for poking the man firmly in his good shoulder and stating, in a rather loud voice: "John!"

Poke.

"John!"

Nothing, though the doctor's distress seemed to ebb and he settled.

Poke.

"John!"

Eyes still closed, but not awake yet.

Poke.

"John!"

Poke.

"John!"

Poke.

"J-"

"I sweartogod, Sherlock, if you poke me again, you'll pull back a nub."

John's eyes were still closed, but he breathed deeply and began to shift. Concern having melted away immediately upon hearing the doctor's even, sleep-rough voice, Sherlock decided that another poke was certainly in order. This was a fun game. He mischievously met John's eyes, slit under his eyelashes and blinking in the light, and went in again for another solid poke.

A hand shot up, far faster than it had any right to be considering its owner was just deep in the throes of REM sleep, and grabbed his Sherlock's bare wrist, stopping its progress.

A few things happened then.

Sherlock, in his unguarded, teasing state had apparently not had as close a reign on his control as he usually did in public. Neither, it appeared, did John - seeing as he was still only half awake. Skin hit skin, and Sherlock felt as though someone had attached two strings of lightning from the top of his head and the bottoms of his feet, then pulled them out of his body through his wrist. His legs gave out and he crumpled next to the chair as John gave a cry and let go. His wrist was tingling with static and felt slightly sunburnt. John, by comparison, went from half-asleep to wide awake in milliseconds. The lightning-strings Sherlock had felt erupted in John like a supernova, and every millimeter of his skin suddenly felt crackling with warm static. He gave a cry at the influx of energy and dropped Sherlock's wrist like it was a venomous snake. He stood so quickly the chair behind him rocked precariously on its back legs, and he backed away towards the fireplace until his back was against the wall. He looked at his hand as though it wasn't attached to him, and then at Sherlock – sagged against the arm of the chair – in horror.

"_Oh my god_. I'm so sorry, I'm so... You're a- But you can't! You work for the police! I thought... Oh god, I'm so sorry. Christ. I didn't mean... Jesus! Are you..." John scrubbed his hands over his face as his instincts as a doctor overrode his embarrassment. Concern Sherlock would react badly to his renewed proximity lost to concern at his friend's current physical state, and he carefully returned to the armchair and leaned over the arm to look Sherlock in the face. "Are you all right?" He asked, softly.

Sherlock, eyes still closed and forehead resting on the forearm draped over the arm of the chair, rolled his head upwards, smiled openly, and let out an utterly relaxed, happy laugh.

"Sh- Sherlock?"

In lieu of an immediate answer, the detective flopped bonelessly backwards onto the carpet, arms spread out and dressing gown askew. He opened his eyes and blinked owlishly at the ceiling a small smile still hovering around the edges of his mouth and eyes.

John had an incredibly inappropriate thought regarding the last time he'd witnessed that particular expression on someone's face, dismissed it outright, and cleared his throat. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock hadn't been this relaxed in... ever. His mind had stopped screaming at him, his muscles all felt like they were made of jello and endorphins, and the buzzing energy he constantly had to hold reigns on was sliding idly by through his veins. He didn't think he could perform so much as a party trick, let alone suspend the Detective Inspector in the air indefinitely. His eyes were closed and it was dark as he sank into the feeling. It was utterly opposite and oh, so much better than any juicer experience he'd ever had.

Far away, he heard John's frightened apologies, then his own name in a concerned tone. Concern? He hadn't felt better in years! The utter absurdity of the question struck him as hilarious, and a relaxed laugh bubbled out of his chest. He tried to sit up straight, but abandoned the effort halfway through and decided melting into the floor was the more desirable option. Spreading out like the Vitruvian man, Sherlock finally found the motivation to open his eyes and hummed contentedly.

"Suddenly I'm glad I had the forethought to buy you dinner," the prone man mumbled giddily, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. He took a deep breath, and let it out, then looked at John who was still looking stricken in the armchair. "Oh, what's that face then? I'm fine. I am _brilliant_, and not just in the usual way." He stretched, arching his back like a cat, and John looked away, the tips of his ears turning pink. Sherlock was now in a fantastic mood, however, and could only find it amusing.

John really should feel guilty about accidentally inflicting himself on a Manipulator without consent, but it was hard to stay self-effacing when his unwilling victim appeared to be enjoying the effects so thoroughly. He looked down at his hands, and brushed self-consciously over his bare forearms which still tingled with a warm electric feeling. Still...

"Sherlock, I'm so, _so_ sorry." He looked at the man still sprawled on the floor and, apparently, with no intention of getting up. To his credit, Sherlock had tilted himself slightly so he could make eye contact with the doctor sitting in the chair. "I never meant – I knew you were brilliant, but-" John sighed. "I've never met a Manipulator who didn't use their abilities whenever it was convenient. I mean... even simple stuff! Like closing doors, or grabbing things from shelves, anything! And you know all these things and come about conclusions the real way, scientifically, and it just didn't occur to me to even ask!" He threw his hands up in despair. "I hate it, anyway. I have to keep it under wraps at the clinic, and in public, and I definitely can't go see a professional without it getting out. I guess... I just... forgot about it. Felt normal again. It's... it's ridiculous, I'm sorry." John shook himself as he realized he'd gone off track a bit. "How are you? How do you feel? That's the first time that's ever happened. I hope I didn't -"

Sherlock rolled himself back up into a sitting position and held up his hand to stop the doctor's apologies. John cut off and they sat in silence for a moment while Sherlock cataloged himself physically and mentally. Subjectively, he thought he was fine. But if this was the first time John had gone off unchecked, it couldn't hurt to do a thorough inventory, of for no other reason than the data. Satisfied that all was in order, he hefted himself up onto the armchair across from John, steepled his fingers, and considered the man.

"I'm fine, and if you're terribly concerned you can do a cursory exam later." Sherlock leaned forward. "So you're a siphon. I didn't think those actually existed. And even then, the theory is just as tech."

It wasn't a question so much as a statement of fact. John looked down at his hands guiltily.

"I wasn't one originally," he said softly.

"This was done _to_ you?" Sherlock was suddenly very interested. Then, as the implications set in, he felt a strange drip of white-hot rage start at the back of his skull on behalf of his friend. The cold, familiar feeling of static energy started creeping out of its hiding places and back under his skin. Well, if either of them were worried that the effects of John's exposure were permanent, that question was settled.

John nodded miserably, then took a deep breath. "I suppose you might as well know, considering," he smiled ruefully. Bracing.

Curiosity ate at the pit of Sherlock's stomach, and yet...

"John, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

That was when John Watson looked at Sherlock Holmes in a way the detective could never remember having been looked at in his life.

The smile was relief and gratitude, confusion, and so much pain it was pushing at the backs of his eyes making them shiny with unshed tears. John sniffed, blinked rapidly, and looked away. Then he met Sherlock's eyes again.

"I'd actually like to tell you, if you're interested."

Trust. That was what the look had been.

Sherlock had the momentary self-awareness to desperately hope John wasn't making a terrible mistake in giving someone as mercurial as himself something so fragile as this, but then John was speaking and all Sherlock could do was listen and learn.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"You were right yesterday when you said I wasn't always a General Practitioner. I was a surgeon and medic for the RAMC – I'll bet you figured that, thought. I don't have to tell you." John shook his head and marveled how his life had taken such a hard left turn in twenty-four hours. "I was... very good. I don't mean to oversell, but my mum always taught me to own it when you found what you were brilliant at, and I had. Most people can't handle it, you know? The stress, the pressure, limited supplies and limited support... but I could. I... Well, buggered if I didn't bloody excel." He rubbed the back of his neck bashfully, and stole a glance at Sherlock. The taller man was leaning back in his chair, legs crossed and fingers steepled in front of his mouth, considering John over the distance between their chairs. Remnants of the blissed-out Manipulator on the floor still clung to him in his relaxed posture, but John had no doubt he held the detective's full attention. He stared into the middle distance and decided to get the story out as quickly, completely, and matter-of-factly as possible.

"I got noticed. Put in with the big dogs. Sent in as the medic for missions with expected casualties. Long-term actions. Operations without support. That sort of thing. Anyway.

"You weren't far off about what those terrorist organizations in parts of Africa and the Middle East are doing to people, turning them into weapons. And you've read the research – it's nearly impossible to force aptitude. So these bastards are stealing kids when then get old enough to show propensity. It's monstrous... they're rural preteens who, fifty years ago, would have been apprenticed to a local healer or shaman or temple, but now everyone knows Manipulation's a real thing and they're getting stolen from their beds at night or on the way to school. It's..." He took a breath, centering himself, and tried to get back on target. "Somebody got a tip: found a training camp where a bunch of these bastards were apparently holding and training child-soldiers. It wasn't supposed to be a hugely manned base because it was up in the mountains and most of the people they were holding were under thirteen... well."

Here it goes. Breathe, John, it's past. It's just a story.

"It was a massacre. I don't know how, but they knew we were coming. Eighty-four percent casualties. You know the juicer dens we have here and in Europe, right?" Sherlock nodded and decided this was not the time to start the story of _how well _he knew of them in London. "Well, then you know what it can do to a person if they aren't careful. They overloaded a bunch of the more powerful kids and pointed them in our direction. Anything they touched exploded until their cortexes burnt out or they stroked out and collapsed. A couple of them started to come out of it and grab onto us, pleading for help. But they couldn't control themselves, and if they got a hold of you... I see it at the clinic sometimes. It's too much and the body can't handle it. Nerves burn out like blown fuses, creeping up from the point of contact until it hits your body cavity and once it hits your heart or lungs or brain, well, that's it. They just wanted us to help them, but they were speaking Urdu and here we were shouting in English... I only knew a few words." John blinked, and refocused. "I was captured performing triage on one of our guys. Murray. Apparently he got left to bleed out but the stitches held and he got picked up later by an extraction team. Lost the leg, but he's married now so..." John shrugged and smiled weakly at his hands. "They brought me in and had me patch up some of their guys at gunpoint. Then I made the mistake of trying to speak to them and someone got the bright idea to start torturing me for information. Apparently I was there for 9 days..." John got very quiet and stared into the middle distance.

Sherlock waited.

The doctor took a deep breath and smiled bitterly. "If the Americans every try to convince Parliament that water boarding isn't torture again, I'll personally sit down with every MP to describe the experience," he scoffed, and took a deep breath through his nose. "That's how they started, anyway. Then the usual..." He waved his hand dismissively and Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from asking what _exactly _he meant by 'the usual.' John looked down at his palms again.

"They'd had this guy working on me for a while – maybe a couple of days, I'm not sure. He knew his stuff, though. They noticed I was a leftie, so that's where they worked. S'how I lost dexterity. Slow sensory overload, but not enough to cause nerve death. It's like burning, but the nerves never shut off because there's no physical damage. I don't remember if I told them anything useful, but I doubt it because they kept it up.

"I don't know exactly how it happened. There was chaos and I was dragged into one of the interrogation rooms by the guy and two of their muscle. Apparently the locals had gotten fed up with murderers stealing their children and threatening their lives, and had decided to help a local group of UN Peacekeepers raid the place. They injected me with something – I'm still not sure what – and then that fucking Manipulator just grabbed me and held on. I could tell he was doing something major, and managed to punch him off so he grabbed my ankle instead. He had my left leg and another guy had my right, which only left one of 'em on both my hands... it happened fast. I just felt this buzzing start from underneath his hands and I knew – it was like those kids but contained. They were trying to make me a bomb.

"The guy holding my arms was concentrating on my left, so I wrenched hard enough and managed to grab his sidearm with my right. I was lucky – stupid bastard didn't look like he ever used the safety. I grabbed it, and-" John mimed reaching behind his head with his right, grabbing something, and swung his fist around and across his chest with a small thump against the fabric of his shirt. His hand landed on his left shoulder, centered between his clavicle and joint.

"Boom."

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, leaning forward and interrupting the story without thinking. "Wait, wait, wait... You shot _Yourself?"_

"Better than blowing up in the helicopter they would have evac'd me in, isn't it? Or the hospital? Or the village? You saw the news, some fundamentalist group managed it a couple weeks ago in Khartoum, in Africa. And that was just some poor guy they'd nabbed and dumped outside a cafe. Who knows how bad it would have been if they'd actually brought him inside."

"Point taken." Sherlock held up his hands and gestured for John to continue. "Self inflicted... I always miss something," he muttered, blinking rapidly, and resumed his calmly interested repose.

John sighed. "Anyway, I missed. I meant to hit my brachial artery. Bleed out before I could be of any use. It wasn't pointless, though. Apparently, the guy at my ankle was pumping so much power into me that he was wide open, and wasn't expecting any sort of backlash since I was a 'mundane,' as you so artfully put it."

Sherlock's mouth twitched and John gave him a wry smile. Then he was serious again, with a touch of confusion.

"Something happened when I shot myself – I don't know if it was the pain, or the injection, or some combination, or what, but I poured everything he'd given me right back into him. Poured it into him _and _the two guys holding me down. It was like I was a live AC cable – they couldn't let go, even when their noses started bleeding. And then they went down and I was alone. I managed to get myself out of the room and down a hall before I collapsed, and woke up in a hospital in Kabul. Everything normal. Well... besides the bullet hole in my left scapula. Nothing wrong with the muscles in my leg, but the nerves just don't fire right anymore in the quad and hamstring. The doc on site thought that might have been where in met out and the clash made everything a bit wonky. The professional best-guess I've gotten is that something about them pumping me full of juice jump-started some latent defense mechanism. You know how normal Manipulators gather up energy organically to use, or you effect bonds on a molecular level or some such... I don't know. You know more about it than I do. You take it in from the environment and stuff and store it – wear it around you like a mummy wears bandages... apparently I don't do that. I dissipate it instead. It's like my body's always trying for normal, and wants to equalize anything it comes into contact with."

Sherlock nodded, suddenly understanding. "So you can never actually hurt someone, but you can effectively render an active Manipulator... powerless?" John nodded. "Huh. I'm surprised they let you leave the army." He arched his eyebrow as John's eyes widened. It had never occurred to him that he himself might have been weaponized. To him, the 'talent' he had brought back from the desert was just another pain in the ass veteran scar.

Sherlock frowned and a line of concern appeared between his eyebrows. "Does that mean that you feel like I did earlier _all the time?_ Calm and -" And higher than any drug can get you? Happy and relaxed and... "How do you function?"

John smiled. It was little, but it was genuine. "I don't feel like you did... at least I definitely don't think so. I'm constantly on edge, though, and taking in stuff just to dissipate it again. Like gills on a fish. So it's like I'm in a constant state of flux, I think. It's not bad, usually. It's easy to control, and I can't even do party tricks with whatever I grab from people because I get rid of it so fast. It comes in handy when we get a juicer overdosing at the clinic. And it doesn't affect 'mundanes' at all, just people with extra energy hanging around." His smile grew teasing. "I guess I'm not surprised I got such a jolt from you, Detective Fidget." He nudged Sherlock's foot where it was crossed over his leg, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Sherlock still frowned, unsettled by the idea of John having gone through such hardship, and further unsettled by his own deep discomfort at another person's hardship. And now he had no idea how to respond. Comfort would ring hollow, and empathy impossible – he had no frame of reference for an experience such as the ones he had just been described. This was why he didn't like people. People were complicated. He struggled to find something as important as John's revelation to share. After all, that's how this whole friendship thing goes, isn't it? John was looking at him like he was supposed to say something. What could he possibly say? He breathed in sharply through his nose and stated, slightly louder than he intended; "I had a dog!"

John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he looked at Sherlock as though he wasn't sure if he was being made fun of or not. "Okaaay."

Damn it, Sherlock, you're ballsing it all up. He gestured vaguely and tried to get John to understand. "No, it's... His name was Redbeard and he was possibly the only creature I ever... cared about deeply enough to contemplate the concept of love." He made eye contact with the doctor and mentally pleaded for the man to comprehend what he had such a hard time putting into words. "I went away to boarding school and it was miserable. Everyone was dull and my brother graduated the second year I attended, after which it became clear that tormenting the brilliant was apparently a school sport. But I had Redbeard, and that was all I needed. And then, as animals do, he aged and became sick. I had shown propensity for Manipulation early, though the science was relatively new at the time, and thought I could do something for him. Nothing worked. Everyone told me it didn't matter, that he was just an animal. And when Mycroft took him away to be put down without telling me, I realized that, without deduction and science and a brilliant mind, simple energy tricks were just that – tricks. So I decided that, as gifted as I was, I would use my _real_ skills to succeed instead of some hocus pocus talent I was born with. I still utilize my Manipulation skills with various experiments, but I've taken great pains to hide my abilities from most I work with. It's one of the reasons I don't... didn't," the corner of his mouth twitched, "have any friends."

John looked at Sherlock for a moment, brows knit together. "What brought that on?"

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth, trying to read his friend's face. "What?"

"That story. Sort of... unexpected?"

"Ah. Well... You. I mean," Sherlock tried admirably to appear casual. He also failed admirably. "I just thought... You might want to know something about me that... that... nobody else... knows," he finished lamely, breaking eye contact and attempting to look imperious in his dressing gown and bare feet.

John's smile broke out across his face like a benediction, and the iron clamp of embarrassment and awkwardness loosened it grip on Sherlock's lungs. He didn't even know when he'd started taking those shallow, difficult breaths, but inhaling fully and smiling back made everything so much better.

"You really aren't used to having friends, are you?" John asked sceptically.

"Not generally, no. Most people are tedious. Or they find me... trying."

"Well, I understand that last bit," John threw back as he got up from the chair, but there was no sting to the tone.

He kept talking as he headed toward the kitchen, mimicking Sherlock's actions from last night and making tea. "You do know it's not a game, right? You don't have to match me anecdote to anecdote, it's just nice to have someone listen and not try to tell me it'll be fine or that they know how I feel."

"Oh." Sherlock considered this. "But how could I possibly claim either of those things? It certainly won't be all right – your surgical career ended!"

"Thanks, I forgot."

"And I can't possibly know how it feels to be in a battlefield situation, that's just absurd. Do people really try to tell you those things?"

"All the time."

"Imbeciles," Sherlock muttered, though not low enough the man in the kitchen couldn't hear.

John barked out a laugh. "How do you think I feel?"

"As average as your mind is, John, I am rather in awe of your self-restraint on this point. I want you to know this," Sherlock called back. Then he was quite completely distracted by something on the floor next to the armchair John had claimed.

John peeked back at Sherlock with a sour expression on his face. "Ta for that, mate. I hope you appreciate its utilization when it comes to know-it-all... detectives... what?"

Sherlock was staring at him intensely, like the cat who ate the canary.

"What?"

Sherlock wouldn't stop staring, and it was starting to get a bit weird. He had a manically gleeful look in his eyes that was starting to make John think he had missed something obvious. "Nothing."

"What? Sherlock." Now John was really starting to get self-conscious. "What?!"

"Nothing!" The spindly man sat back with an anticipatory smile and tapped his steepled fingers together over his chest impatiently. "The kettle's about to boil – two sugars, please."

John sighed and went back into the kitchen to make tea. He returned holding both cups and bent down to hand one to Sherlock. Instead of taking it, the detective looked expectantly at the doctor standing in front of him. John started to feel a bit like Sherlock was being difficult on purpose and thrust the mug of tea in his face. The detective kept ignoring the tea in front of his nose and staring at the doctor like he was waiting for something.

"Sherlock! Take. It."

"John," Sherlock started coolly, leaning back in his chair and refusing to acknowledge the mug, "what are you doing?"

Now he was just being exasperating. "I'm trying to give you a bloody cuppa! You asked for it, you know."

"No, John. _What _are you doing?"

"I'm getting annoyed is what I'm-"

"No. _John_." Sherlock was looking at him like he was a schoolchild missing a very obvious concept. "_What are you doing?" _

John huffed. "I'm standing here in the middle of a madman's living room, holding our tea and..." John stopped and looked down at his hands, both of which were holding mugs of steaming tea. He blinked, then looked at Sherlock in bewilderment.

"I'm holding our tea," he stated softly.

Sherlock stopped trying to hide his smile and it broke across his face like high tide, changing the entirety of his demeanour.

"You're holding our tea."

He reached out and took his cup, which John let go of numbly.

John looked at Sherlock, then at their tea, then back over his shoulder to the kitchen, and back to Sherlock again. A slow smile spread across his face and it was as openly happy as Sherlock had ever seen anyone. "How am I holding our tea? Sherlock, where-"

Sherlock nodded to the cane, knocked over and partially kicked under the chair during the kerfuffle that morning. "Over there," he voiced needlessly, as John had already abandoned his mug and was crouching over it. "Forget it, did we?"

John wrestled the thing out from under the chair and held it in his hands. He let out a slightly hysterical laugh, before clapping a hand over his own mouth and looking at Sherlock with shock.

"Yes, I did," he managed, a hysterical edge still to his voice.

"Maybe all you needed was another little jump-start," Sherlock offered, though he highly doubted John much cared about the how's and why's of his sudden mobility. Pity – he would have loved to see if they could replicate the results somehow.

"Maybe," John echoed, still staring from his cane to the kitchen to Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned.

"John, sit in the chair and drink your tea or I'll assume you're going into shock and call an ambulance. We still have to call Lestrade about the translation we deciphered last night."

John shook himself soundly, sat, and grabbed his mug. He was still smiling broadly and had a hard time drinking his tea because of it, but that didn't stop him.

Eventually, John looked at his watch and wrinkled his nose in distress. "I have to go to my flat," he told Sherlock reluctantly. The thought of his dreadful, beige and cream studio made his heart drop. After spending the night and morning in Sherlock's lovely, if strange, flat with its Victorian flourishes and exuberantly-patterned wallpaper, John had remembered how beautiful living in London could be. The idea of his cheap, industrial, fourth-floor walk up made him slightly depressed now. John remembered the empty bedroom upstairs and wondered idly if he could stop on the way out and inquire about its rent from the landlady. Mrs. Houston was her name? Howston? Hudson? Then he wondered how Sherlock would take the revelation that his new acquaintance was a stalker, imagined something dead and/or poisonous taking residence in his shaving kit, and dismissed the notion as fanciful.

Sherlock frowned. He didn't want the doctor to leave, he wanted him to stay. Indefinitely. Which was insanity – he'd only known the man for twenty-hour hours. Of course, the last person to enjoy his company for twenty-four hours had been his mother. Many years ago. And even that had been a bit of a stretch. He pondered what was left of his tea sourly.

"Why?" he demanded.

"Well, I have things to do."

"Like what?" Sherlock knew he sounded petulant, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Well, laundry for one. And I need a change of clothes. And a shower. And breakfast. And I should probably sleep in a bed tonight, not that the armchair isn't comfortable. It's just not great for a busted shoulder." John smiled warmly at Sherlock, who obviously shared his own reluctance over John's imminent departure. He got up and clapped Sherlock solidly on the shoulder. "I'm not at uni, kipping on friends' couches anymore. Don't have the back for it."

John began gathering his things while Sherlock warred with himself.

There's the room upstairs.

What if he says no.

You've needed a flatmate for ages.

He'll think I'm a clingy psychopath.

There's no such thing as a clingy psychopath, that's absurd.

What if he says no.

He says he's your friend.

But what if he says no.

Ask him, he's leaving.

"Well, Sherlock, I'm off. If you still want to get a pint later, or want more help with the case, just-"

"There's the room upstairs."

John blinked. Sherlock, again, felt the urge to melt into a puddle of embarrassment at his outburst. What was wrong with him? He's never been great with people but really, this was just mortifying! He pursed his lips instead and raised his chin, looking aloof.

"There's the extra room upstairs. You obviously abhor your current living arrangements, and it likely isn't that much further from the clinic considering you were heading to a tube stop that caters to express trains. It would be financially beneficial to both of us, I'm certain, and it would solve my trouble with Mrs. Hudson attempting to foist some Neanderthal upon me for profit. There's laundry in the flat, and you've seen most everything else. It makes perfect sense. You should bring your laundry over and keep it here. It'll be simpler that way, and you can speak to Mrs. Hudson about a key. She'll be awake by the time you get back."

John blinked again, and Sherlock again prepared for the sound of retreating feet. Instead, the blonde doctor rocked back and forth on his heels, chewed on his bottom lip, and considered. Half a smile crept onto his face, and he looked at Sherlock.

"Well, can I see it before I start bringing my things over, at least?"

Sherlock didn't grin or shout or pump his fist in the air like the tiny, happy child in his chest wanted to, but he did bound out of the chair and across the living room to the door much faster than decorum would dictate. John didn't seem to mind.

John followed Sherlock up the stairs, which the lanky detective was taking two at a time, and peeked into the upstairs room he was already mentally referring to as his. It was small and blue and bright with sunshine. It had its own dresser with a mirror and, oh, was that a double bed? He thought of the small, flat twin mattress that had come with his current flat and was suddenly calculating how manageable fitting everything he owned into his army and gym duffels would be. Meanwhile Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, looking imperious despite the jimjams and bare feet, while John made a quick once-over of the room.

"Well?" The taller man asked impatiently.

John turned to the statue in the doorway. "I'll be back later today! Do you mind if I use your laundry detergent?"

Sherlock smirked and turned to make his way back down the stairs to the living room. "We don't have any," he called over his shoulder. "And while you're out, it would be wonderful if you could get some milk, thanks! See you this afternoon! I'll speak with Mrs. Hudson."

John was left standing in his new room, wondering what the hell he had just agreed to.


	6. Chapter 6

****NOTES****

_Sorry about the formatting for the original post, everyone. Looks like the code got in here somwhere. Thanks ARTY DIANE for letting me know! Enjoy the real chapter, everyone, NOW WITHOUT HTML :-D_

Chapter 6

John's feeling that his life was changing permanently in the cab to Angelo's was proving to have been more true than he could have ever imagined. The last week had been one of the busiest, oddest, most interesting spans of time he had experienced since he was getting regularly shot at in the high desert and mountains of Asia minor. He had returned to 221B Baker Street on Saturday afternoon with most of his things, including his army-issue M9 which he may or may not have "forgotten" to turn in when he was discharged. (John figured that Sherlock wouldn't care much, and if anyone ever raided the place, the body parts in the fridge would garner much more interest than his gun). He had spent the rest of the weekend settling in, informing his temporary housing office that he was – thankfully – no longer in need of their service, tagging along with Sherlock to New Scotland Yard, tidying the flat a bit, and generally getting to know his new flatmate.

John had had a friendly and enlightening conversation with the lovely Mrs. Hudson, his new landlady and _certainly-not-housekeeper, _over some tea and scones she'd brought upstairs for the two men on Monday evening. Apparently she had wanted to meet him before giving over a key to the place. However, John had gotten a distinct impression over the course of their pot of Earl Grey that he was sitting an interview with a particularly protective girlfriend's mother. Due to his erstwhile flatmate's utter detachment from the conversation at his perch at his microscope on the kitchen table, John felt the need to unilaterally clarify his position when the cordial woman mentioned she was happy Sherlock had finally "found someone" as she was clearing away the tea things.

"I'm not... I mean – Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I'm not actually... gay. I'm just," John sighed a little as he struggled to justify moving in with a relative stranger and setting about spending nearly all his time with them. "We just get on, you know? Neither of us really have many friends and... well, you know him." John smiled what he hoped was a conspirational smile.

Mrs. Hudson looked sidelong at him and winked.

"Oh, of course dear. You wouldn't be bothering with the upstairs, otherwise, I'm sure." She bustled a bit and paused at the door, whispering in not at all a discreet manner, "You won't hear anything else outta me, dears. Not a peep, not even to the girls. Not till you give the word, that is. Not a peep!"

And she brushed out of the door. John sagged against the back of his armchair. Staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure out how he would ever manage a love life again, John heard what sounded suspiciously like an swallowed snort from the stoic form at the table. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"Oi, it's not like I'm the _only _one she thinks is sleeping with a man," he reminded Sherlock.

"Tetchy, tetchy," a calm baritone bounced off the slides and back to the living room. "She said herself she won't say anything. Though I suppose that doesn't keep her from insinuating or otherwise indicating her opinions on our partnership to her cohorts at the bridge club..." He looked up and off into space somewhere over the counters. "I do suppose this puts a cramp in your otherwise playboy-esque lifestyle," his eyebrow lifted at John's sputtering laugh and he rolled his eyes in the direction of the doctor. "And of course, I shall have to stop bringing home my rent-boys."

Sherlock barely managed to duck the union-jack pillow lobbed at his head from across the flat. "John! Experiments!"

John laughed and fluttered his eyes sarcastically. "Sorry, my jealousy at the fondness with which you speak of your previous conquests made me to take leave of my senses. Now get up and get dressed – we're meeting Lestrade about your profile, remember?"

Sherlock didn't dignify John with a reply, but stood and stalked into his bedroom muttering about cultures and reckless and flatmates being overrated. He emerged not long after and beelined for the door, donning his coat and stomping down the stairs without acknowledging the doctor. At the front door, however, Sherlock noticed he was not being followed and paused. Listening for steps from upstairs and hearing none, he huffed and called;

"John!"

Nothing.

Oh dear.

He hoped this wasn't what his mother had referred to as "a taste of your own medicine" because if it was, he was apparently a tough pill to swallow sometimes. Nonsense, John said he was brilliant. He wouldn't miss out on a foray into adventure out of spite. Would he?

"John?!"

"Coming, coming, hold your damned horses you stroppy bastard, I'm still working on the whole all-limbs-in-working-order thing!" John tromped down the stairs, pulling on his jacket as he went. "For someone who spends as much time as you in the bathroom, you'd think you'd let a man take a leak before setting out across town, jeez."

In truth, John had been taking his time upstairs. Slightly unsure if the other man wanted his company, John had tarried putting on his shoes and waited for the inevitable close of the front door until the second call of his name, tinged with anxiety, had put him in gear.

He stopped in front of Sherlock, who was blocking the closed door. John raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Sherlock blinked, raised his chin, straightened his shoulders, and opened the door. He stepped to the curb to flag down a passing cab.

John had regretfully left NSY earlier than Sherlock on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings. Another body with the same ritualistic circumstances had been reported mid-morning on Wednesday, and he had joined Sherlock at the yard as soon as he could get off work. His shifts at the AMUC clinic during the day and evenings pouring over the evidence and suspect pools with the DI and Sherlock had the days buzzing by. (He had managed to get Lestrade to start calling it the A.M.U.C., but really – what had anyone thought they would be called with that acronym?) They had managed to narrow down the physical location and education level of the killer thanks to Sherlock and some good, old-fashioned statistics, but that meant they were still looking for a graduate-level Manipulator in a part of the city with more colleges per capita than any other area. The biggest narrowing of the field had come with Sherlock's revelation that the man (and it was a man, thank you DNA evidence) was likely suffering from some sort of terminal disorder and was attempting to rectify it somehow. However, Sherlock's inability to come up with something more solid after translating the strange writings in the ritual circle had them at a bit of an impasse and the detective himself crawling the walls in frustration. Lestrade had focused on the last line, easier to see and unobstructed under the feet of the second victim, Madeline Brixton – _the last shall be __utilized. _The DI certainly didn't like the sound of that and thought it indicated, quite right it appeared, that they were dealing with a serial murderer. While Sherlock became more and more caught up in the why of the ritual killings, John attempted to help Lestrade narrow down the manhunt using the profile, both physical and mental, Sherlock had provided before another girl ended up dead.

Arriving home from the clinic on Friday evening, John was looking forward to a weekend full of more staring at police reports and medical charts when he noticed the door to the living area was open at the top of the stairs. Sherlock was supposed to be at the Yard, but God knew what he was actually up to at an given moment. In the week he'd been living here, John had come to expect the unexpected from the curly-haired madman.

"Sherlock?"

Something was different, though. He could... feel it? It was as though he'd gotten used to the frayed, warm static Sherlock put out when he was on a tear and had already started associating it with home. This was... similar, but sharp. It put John on alert as he climbed the stairs and edged into his living room.

There was a strange man in an exquisite suit lounging in Sherlock's armchair, drinking tea and looking like he had made himself utterly at home. There didn't appear to be anyone else there, but John hadn't survived a warzone by being stupid. He kept on guard as he approached the figure, who put his teacup down and looked at the approaching doctor.

"Ah, Doctor John Watson. Do, be seated." The man gestured to John's chair. (Well, it wasn't really John's, but he liked it best and Sherlock didn't seem to mind and – Who was this man?)

John narrowed his eyes at the man and kept his back to the wall. "I'll stand, thanks. And who are you? The room upstairs is taken, if that's what you're here about. Mrs. Hudson..."

The man in the chair scoffed and shook his head. "Don't play dumb with me, soldier, I've no interest in renting from Mrs. Hudson. We made sure she was well away before I arranged this little... tete-a-tete." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It looked more like he was smelled something that had gone off, and John would have laughed if it had been Sherlock.

Sherlock.

"Where's-"

"Scotland Yard, exactly where he told you he'd be. Strange, that. Such a mercurial fellow, never a care for anyone and now... you. You've known each other a week and already he's updating you on his movements, asking for your input, you're living together. Tell me – shall we be hearing bells soon enough?"

John sighed, exasperated, and suddenly he had a suspicion as to who he was actually talking to. "Why does everyone think – No! Just because we..." He huffed and crossed his arms. "I leave him be. And he leaves me be. That's why we get on. Plus," he narrowed his eyes at the intruder, "he's brilliant, for anyone who'll listen."

The man in front of him sniffed, blinked, and studied the doctor carefully. "I think you and I could have a rather beneficial relationship, Doctor Watson. Since Sherlock appears to have taken to you, I am prepared to offer no small sum for periodical updates on his whereabouts, well-being, projects... things of that nature. Nothing untoward, of course."

John barked out a laugh and the well-dressed man tilted his chin upwards, trying to look imperious.

The tea, the expression, the chair – the scene was familiar enough to cause deja-vu and he immediately relaxed and walked over to his own armchair, falling into it and considering his companion. The doctor's sudden change in demeanour appeared to have thrown the other man off-guard, and microexpressions of annoyance and confusion flicked across his face.

"You're the dog-brother! Mitchel? Michael?"

The other man scowled.

"Mycroft," he bit out.

"Ah. Pleasure, Mycroft... kinda. But no, I'm not going to spy on your brother because you two can't be civil or something. I'm not having him knock on my sister's door, and I won't do it for you. Clever, though, the whole spy-kids thing." John picked up a newspaper he had no intention of reading and began looking through it.

"I assure you," Mycroft growled, "I am incredibly serious in my offer. I have more than enough influence to-"

John put down the paper and met Mycroft's gaze head on.

"I assure _you," _he replied fiercely, "I am incredibly serious as well."

His hand itched to reach across the gap between them and see if Mycroft was just as charged a battery as his brother was. Something told him Sherlock's brother wouldn't take as kindly to being suddenly stripped as the detective had. He balled his hands into fists and decided to simply win the staring contest.

He did.

Mycroft stood and grabbed an umbrella from where it leaned against the wall near the door.

"I trust you won't tell Sherlock about this little meeting," he said casually from the doorway.

John returned to staring at the paper. "Oh, I certainly will."

"Hmm." Mycroft hovered for a moment before sighing through his nose in a small sound of frustration. He took a step back inside and, as though it pained him to have to ask, inquired;

"Dog-brother?"

John smiled a bit and looked sceptically at the well-dressed man. "Come now, you must remember Redbeard? Or are you more a cat person?" He turned back to staring unseeingly at the paper, but not before catching the shocked expression on Mycroft's face at the mention of the family pet, followed by a slightly disgusted look at the mention of cats. Not much of an animal person at all, John supposed. Well that explained a lot – he never did get along much with people who didn't care for animals.

"Well! He. I see. You certainly have been handed the keys to the kingdom, Doctor."

John frowned.

"I hope you know how to conduct yourself accordingly."

With that parting shot, Sherlock's older brother descended the stairs at a saunter, umbrella clicking on the wood. For some reason, the man's leisurely pace in exiting the home he had broken into bothered John almost as much as the attempted bribe. Suddenly, and with great glee, he grabbed his phone and shot off a text.

DOES YOUR BROTHER ALWAYS CARRY AN UMBRELLA EVERYWHERE OR DID I MISS A WEATHER REPORT?

*** send ***

John heard the pace-pace-click of dress shoes and the umbrella pause a few steps from the bottom of the stairs and a long-suffering sigh before a muffled "Hello Brother."

John fancied he could here Sherlock shouting through the phone from his seat in the living room.

Saturday morning started very early indeed for John Watson.

Sherlock hadn't meant to wake John, really, but everything was terrible and the violin had seemed like a very nice idea at first. He would play and it would help him think. Sherlock's hands began to produce Vivaldi's "Winter" without conscious thought as he ruminated on the case.

He hadn't slept since Wednesday when Lestrade had come to report Madeline Brixton's body had been found. It was now Saturday and he was frustrated beyond reason. Nothing made sense, there was no specific _why_ for these killings. Yes, certainly, the _broad _why was there: this was a man afraid of death, a man whose identity was unavoidably tangled up in his Manipulation abilities, a man of otherwise sound mind – highly educated – who was being driven to desperation in these ritual killings. But the why of the _specific_ continued to elude him, and he couldn't help but believe that was the missing piece of the puzzle. How had this man come to believe this arcane system of magic would be helpful? Was he trying to cure himself? No – it didn't make sense. But then what was this binding nonsense? The detective had gone over and over the translation and he was certain it was correct – but it still didn't make any sense! _Bond bone of mind with mind of bone –_ what drabble was that? But this wasn't some teenager with a problematic bully at school, this was an educated, experienced man. It was clunky. Like someone attempting to emulate Hemmingway and coming up short. But its vagueness, its amateurish style, made the overall purpose that much more obtuse. And meanwhile people were dying and he couldn't. Figure. It. Out.

He didn't realize he was screeching out his anger on the E and A strings until he heard a sleepy "Sherlock?" from behind him. He whirled around, dressing gown flaring, and started at the compact blonde approaching him with half-open eyes. The detective looked quickly from the doctor to the violin and bow in his hands to the clock and back to the doctor, then huffed and aggressively returned the instrument to its case. Without turning, he choked on the myriad of thoughts churning around his mind and tried to speak levelly.

"Apologies, John, I didn't take your presence into account. You may return to bed."

"Have you gone to sleep yet?" The question was gentle and slightly amused, not the accusation the detective was expecting. Still, he raised his chin and squared his shoulders.

"I've gone several days without sleep before, it's hardly an issue."

"Several... days?" John's expression melted to concern as his doctor-brain kicked in under the haze of sleep. Oh. John had meant, had he gone to sleep yet _tonight_. And now he'd given himself away to a medic. Great. There's always something.

"There's always _something_," Sherlock muttered, frustration coming back in spades. Manic, he started pacing. "I can't sleep, John, there's this case and it doesn't fit – it doesn't Fit." He ran his hands through his hair, pulling it so it stuck up at odd angles. "There's going to be another, and maybe another body, and it's the same – all of them, the same until the last! But then it'll be the last, and he'll be done anyway! And he's out there, waiting. He's clever, but not so clever. He's panicked, he's prone to mistakes, but I just can't see the WHY of it and that's the piece, John! That's the piece that will help us find him. That's IT."

John approached, palms up in surrender, and gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, it's 4:30 in the morning. When was the last time you -"

"Slept? Slept, John? I don't need sleep, I need to find a murderer!" He drew out the word 'sleep' like it was reprehensible, even as exhaustion pulled at his entire body.

John straightened. "Right."

Sherlock, had he been a bit more alert, would have realized right then that he was in trouble. As it was, he was taken a bit off guard when John grabbed his chin and forced the detective to make eye contact. "How long have you been awake?"

Sherlock blinked rapidly and thought for a moment. "Ah..."

"No. NO." Doctor John Watson, Army Medic was in full swing. "_Not_ how long can you tell me so that I'll let you stay up. How. Long. have you been. Awake?"

Sherlock scowled for a moment, then broke eye contact. "Approximately seventy hours."

"Yup, time for bed." John let go of Sherlock and circled around him, pushing his back so he started walking towards the kitchen and his bedroom.

"No, John! You don't understand!" He was taking reluctant, small steps in the direction he was being pushed but by no means making it easy for the smaller man.

"Oh, I understand. I understand that in about 5 hours you're going to start hallucinating and I'll be damned if I'll let you start that with all the chemicals you keep in this house."

"I won't. I can't! My brain won't shut off."

"It'll shut off if I have to lock you in the room."

"No!"

Now the detective actually started to struggle. John took pity on him and stopped his relentless march to the bedroom.

Sherlock whirled on him with a snarl. "You lock me in that room and I'll put sodium hydroxide in your shampoo!"

He gestured frantically and John could actually see tiny static sparks nip between his moving fingers and within the folds of his dressing gown. "I can't sleep, my mind won't _let _me. You put me in that dark room and the boredom is interminable. I won't sleep and I'll be useless tomorrow. Useless!" He crossed his arms and looked for all the world like a petulant child. Objectively, Sherlock knew he looked like he was pouting. It didn't matter, as long as he wasn't forced to try to sleep while his mind and body buzzed and screamed and whirled around his unsolved mystery.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and and rubbed his eyes. Then he considered the tall man in front of him for a moment, lips pursed. He appeared to come to some sort of decision and took a deep breath. He turned and slowly made his way around the room, turning off lamps and closing the living room door. He stood by the sofa and beckoned Sherlock with two fingers.

"Come here," he instructed quietly.

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot. "I don't see the point in-"

"Just! Come here," John cut him off and sat on one end of the couch.

Sherlock walked over and stood in front of him. John patted the empty space beside him. "Lay down," he said. The instruction was gentle but firm and in no way a request. Sherlock sat in the middle of the space and considered for a moment – head or feet – before deciding to make it as difficult for John to move as possible and plopping his head down in the man's lap with none too much care. The doctor "Hmmm"d a bit in discomfort but didn't say anything else. He stared up at the ceiling from his place across John's quadriceps and tried not to think of the last time someone initiated such involved physical contact with him. It was a depressing train of thought. He narrowed his eyes at the doctor.

"Now what," he stated icily.

John took a deep breath through his nose. He probably shouldn't do this, but Sherlock needed to sleep and he was so tense the room was practically vibrating. He looked down at the detective, who had obviously decided his lap would make the most inconvenient pillow, thus decideding to use it exclusively, and hesitated. "I want to try something, if it's okay. Just... try to relax and think about the case or whatever you were thinking about and... tell me if you want me to stop. Sound good?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit as he apparently, finally, got the gist of what John was going to try. He settled himself a bit and steepled his fingers under his nose.

"Fine," he bit out, but it wasn't as frosty as he'd been before.

John took a breath and closed his eyes, threaded his fingers through Sherlock's everywhere-hair, and brought down his wall an increment at a time.

It was easy like this. Familiar. This was something he'd practised, though it was usually used in emergency situations now and not to get manic room-mates to relax before they start hallucinating from sleep-deprivation. First time for everything, he supposed. John breathed deeply and started siphoning off some of Sherlock's unused, staticy energy. His hand started to warm and he got the familiar, slightly uncomfortable, pre-pins-and-needles feeling. But the slow influx of whatever-it-was soon turned into a warm, relaxed energy that flooded his whole body and calmed him to the core. This was what his cells were programmed to do now, and he forgot how nice it was not to have the whole process shut off like he was so wont to have it during regular day-to-day. He sighed and leaned his head back on the couch, closing his eyes. He wouldn't sleep, but he could enjoy the calm and rest.

Sherlock didn't feel anything at first. It was certainly nothing like the overwhelming, utterly draining experience he remembered from the week previous. He was, however, glad he'd chosen to lay his head in the good doctor's lap. The last thing he wanted to divulge at this point was how ticklish his feet were. And the gentle, solid hand in his hair felt nice on its own. As the detective settled down to try to think on the case despite the dark and his frustration and the myriad versions of himself screaming in his head that this was a waste of time, he started to feel it. Tension he didn't realize he had been holding started melting away. Starting at the top of his head and working its way down behind his ears and under his jaw, then down his neck and across his shoulders, sparks of sensation followed by a melting calm down to his bones flowed down his body. His mind quieted as it was presented with an utterly new experience and began to catalogue the effects. The feeling rolled down his spine and outward. His hands drifted down and landed on his chest, the effort of holding them up suddenly a bit too much to bother. Sherlock closed his eyes and shifted, burrowing a little into the couch. John's hand stiffened a little but didn't retreat.

"You all right?"

"Yah, Yes." Sherlock found it a bit difficult to articulate himself and was surprised to find he had been so near the edge of sleep. He settled a little further into the couch. "This is... good. You can... keep on... if you want."

He heard a soft, sleepy chuckle above him. "'Kay," was John's only response and Sherlock couldn't help but feel superior in that he was obviously not the only one who was sleepy though he _had _been up nearly three days. He focused on some details of the case and ruminated on them, intrigued to find he was able to focus with more clarity than he had for nearly a day with the aid of the grounding doctor's ministrations. After a few minutes, half asleep, John's thumb started slowly petting Sherlock's hair back from his forehead and the dual sensation of being grounded and physical comfort soon escorted the stubborn detective from his deep thought into a deep, sound sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Sherlock came awake gradually, slipping from the vivid dreams of the deeply asleep to his average mid-case thoughts seamlessly and without opening his eyes. Had John been paying any attention at all, the only difference he may have noted was a slight change in the man's breathing. A part of the detective's mind noted the light beyond his closed eyelids and the increased traffic sounds outside the windows, placed the time at somewhere between 8:45 and 9:30am, and promptly shut up to let the real thinking happen. John's hand was still threaded through his hair against his scalp, though it had sunk down to be cushioned by the doctor's leg, and his breathing was even – relaxed but not asleep. Sherlock felt that now-familiar twinge underneath his solar plexus at the idea that the doctor had stayed stationary and allowed him to sleep for approximately four hours before he was able to clamp down on it as moot sentiment and get back to the thinking at hand. Where had he been before he'd been forced into REM cycles and stagnation... Ah! Yes, that damnable clunker of an incantation their killer had been utilizing to direct whatever he was attempting to accomplish. Maybe some free association would work. He was too comfortable to get up for more research at the moment, and accessing the mind palace would alert his pillow-slash-doctor that he was awake, which would likely result in said pillow-slash-doctor getting up and, circling back, he was too comfortable to move at the moment. If John's shoulder was hurting, well, he should have had the forethought not to invite himself into this position hours ago.

With this sacrifice, perform the will of the mind.

Bond bone of mind with mind of bone.

The last shall be utilized.

All right, will of the mind, well that was easy enough. Most traditional Manipulators still had an irrational attachment to things like incantations and spellcraft. Nonsense, really, and not needed but it helped the person focus and that was the main thing. Sherlock blamed that strange little children's series about wizards that'd swept through when he was a teenager. It did have dragons, though...

Will of the mind, though, mind... it keeps getting mentioned:

Bone of mind, mind of bone, mind my bones, bones on my mind, I don't mind, I mind, mind me, my mind, my brain? Bone of the brain? Brain of Bone, transcribing on bone, bone art, scrimshaw –

irrelevant.

reset.

Transcribing on bone, transcribing knowledge, I have knowledge, Mycroft has more –

reset.

Bone use in traditional magic practices, animism, sympathetic magic, empathetic magic?

Empathy. Bones. Doctors. Molly. John –

reset.

Traditional magic practice, sympathetic magic, like assists like, associations, Skull associated with knowledge, bonding knowledge, storing knowledge, storing a mind?

Better, better, but... storing a mind? How? Even the best tech didn't...

no, just think.

Bond, bond, bond bone of mind with mind of bone, bond the brain with a... skull, somehow?

Backtrack.

Storing a mind, skull is the seat of the mind, mind is the origin of self, bone of the mind, sympathetic magic.

He's traditional but knowledgeable.

He's dying.

Traditional, Manipulator, educated, style of incantation indicates ties to religion.

He's losing his mind, considers his brain broken but...

OOH!

John, previously unaware that the man in his lap was awake, practically jumped out of his skin when the lanky man sat up abruptly with a gasp and a grin.

"JESUS Sher-"

Sherlock stood effortlessly and hopped a bit, fists clenched and wavering in front of him in barely-contained excitement. "That's it! That's it! Oh, John, you!" He gestured to the seated doctor who was trying to wrestle his heart rate back to normal. "You! As plain as your mind is, you truly do clear the cobwebs from mine, John! His Soul."

John just looked confused and a little annoyed. "Oh, thanks." He rolled his neck and shoulders and stretched. "Now what on Earth? Are you even awake yet? Whose soul, what are you-"

"The killer, John. The Killer!" He started pacing again the same track he'd run the night before, gesturing broadly and diving into his explanation. John had a fleeting thought that they should get a runner before he wore a hole in the rug, then assessed his patient with a discerning eye. He looked rested, at least, and the dangerous, manic edge was gone. The detective's whole posture was slightly more open, and his movements – while still chaotic – lacked the angry frisson of pent up power. This enthusiastic outburst was all Sherlock.

"It's so simple, I can't believe I missed it. You got me right, that's how. Tedious! Staring me right in the face, he's religious, man! Not just intelligent, not just educated, he's religious! That's where the cobbled-together ritual setting is coming from, the strange take on ecclesiastical Latin. I'll bet you something pointed him in the right direction and he made it his own. It's not his mind, not his brain he's interested in, not really. Not at the core!"

John just squinted and wrinkled his nose, trying to follow. "So he's... in the clergy?"

Sherlock threw an eye roll so dramatic in John's direction the doctor was surprised his head didn't pop off. "No. John. Obviously – think for once. But he is religious, more so than average, that part is plain."

"Okay, let's pretend for one moment that I don't live in your brain, and that I don't have an inside track on every little thought that brought you to this conclusion. Start from the beginning, would you?"

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal and headed towards his bedroom. "No point, I'll only have to explain it again to Lestrade – in minute detail, no doubt. Don't want to repeat myself, if you have any grey areas you can get them clarified at the Yard. Now get dressed, we've got to get going!"

It didn't look like he was being given a choice. "Fine, but click on the kettle while you're there? I need some tea before I go anywhere..." John got up with a slight groan and stretched a little, arm across his chest and touching his toes.

Sherlock heard John's noise of protest and popped his head back out of the kitchen. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm fine. Just not used to sitting like that for so long. Or staying open on low for that long, come to think of it..." John rolled his head about, stretching protesting neck muscles and smiled a bit, teasing. "Got you to sit still, though, didn't it? I'll have to remember that trick." He straightened a bit and grinned at the detective, standing awkwardly in in the kitchen's entrance. A worry crease had appeared above Sherlock's nose and he stood off-center, chewing on his cheek.

John, face still open and cheery, quirked an eyebrow. "Hey, now, what's that face? I am brilliant," he softly echoed Sherlock's own friendly platitude and the detective twitched a smile, finally making eye contact again. The taller man's eyebrows knit together in a slight frown, but he steadied his stance.

"Thank you," he stated, then seemed a bit at a loss again. His eyes darted about and would only meet the doctors for milliseconds at a time. "That was... good, what you did. I apologize if I was... difficult. Or if I caused you any distress. Or discomfort. The effects were... both unprecedented and unexpected. I-" Sherlock was sure the tips of his ears were turning red, and he could feel a blush creeping up his chest. Thank god for long hair and crew necks. "Thank you," he finished, and turned abruptly to head back to his room. He needed to get dressed and he was certainly-not-running-away, thanks.

John chuckled a little at his flatmate's obvious discomfort navigating what, the doctor realized, was likely an absurdly personal experience for the standoffish detective. He started to head upstairs to get dressed when he heard Sherlock's muffled voice call "John, Kettle! Three sugars for me!" from his bedroom. The doctor shook his head and detoured to the kitchen to make them some breakfast.

The doctor and his madman friend found themselves sitting in Detective Inspector Lestrade's office a little before 11 o'clock that morning. John was nursing some coffee from the break room – the tea hadn't quite given him the kick he was hoping for - and Sherlock was going over what he had concluded earlier. The Inspector was rubbing tightly shut eyes and attempting to follow. At least John had the benefit of having been there for the initial burst of clarity while the detective was still organizing it himself. Now the poor DI received only an icy glare when he asked for clarifications.

"So he's trying to save his soul, like, literally save? Like it's a hard drive or something?"

Sherlock huffed through his nose in impatience. "It's a bit more involved than that, obviously, Inspector, but that's the essence of it. It appears he's attempting to acquire the power to tether his mind – or, as he would see it, his soul – to an object of some kind. Odds are rather large at this moment it's literally a skull, which fits with the profile of someone used to and utilizing traditional ritual practices. Something organic would be good, something associated with the seat of the personality even better. A heart is likely both too delicate and has too short an expiration date. No, this man wants to be around a very long time. So a skull it is. And it also narrows down the field of candidates quite nicely. He'd likely have tried to use himself as a vessel, but the last line indicates he's looking for another sacrifice to use instead. That means he perceives there's something physically wrong with his own head – an imperfection of some kind. Due to the obvious weak state of both body and abilities we're seen in these two murders, it means we're likely looking for someone with a cancer or physically deformative illness of some sort."

"Great, so we're lookin' for a Manipulator with a death wish. I'll keep the fellas in SWAT updated on our progress." Lestrade sighed, then shuddered a bit. "Wait, this can't actually be done, can it? Linking yourself to your own skeleton? Wandering around as a ghost the rest of eternity? Why would someone even try?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, no, highly doubtful. The entire labor is likely the final acts of a dying man trying desperately to circumvent the inevitable instead of simply enjoying his time. I can't think of a single verified study where even a thought has been linked permanently with a physical object, let alone someone's entire consciousness. They'd have to have incredible amounts of power – far more than the human body could hold. The results of trying to store it would likely be..." His eyes glanced to the doctor sitting next to him for a split second. "Well, it would certainly ruin their day," he concluded.

Lestrade blinked at the unprecedented attempt at humor. John just snorted into his coffee. Sherlock was dark, yes, but he was funny. At least, John thought so.

The Inspector glared at them, though there was a bit of amusement hidden behind his pursed lips. "Yeah, I can imagine," he drawled. He signed, then slumped at his desk. "Well, I was hoping to pop by and see Molly today – she says the tox screen's back on Madeline Brixton and she had some interesting results, but I should probably get the boys on this instead. Narrow down the search a bit, see if we can rustle up some suspects for DNA samples. You think you could swing by the morgue and get the run-down from her for me?" He pressed a button on his intercom. "Hey, Sally! Get some of the guys 'round the water cooler to start sifting through the suspects and looking for cancer patients who love God, will ya? Or... just have 'em come in here."

Sherlock perked up at the mention of Molly Hooper. John did too – he'd heard this woman mentioned several times but had yet to meet her. She seemed to be yet another interesting person and one of the few Sherlock ever spoke of casually. The detective agreed quickly. "Not a problem, Lestrade. Shall I let her know what you're up to, or will you be doing that at dinner tonight?" He smirked as the DI sputtered a bit.

"How did – There's nothing- Now see here, Molly Hooper's a hellofa woman and just because you-"

A disagreeable voice interrupted them through the intercom. "God-Cancer? Is this 'cause of Freak and the New One? What kind of rubbish are they-"

"Sally..." The detective rubbed the bridge of this nose and sighed. "You know the intercom's a speaker..."

"Huh. Hi, Freak! Hi, New-Face! Hope he runs you off soon. You're a good lookin' one, you are. A little small, but that's never what counts, huh? Come see me! Second desk near the elevat-"

Lestrade hit the button to mute the intercom with rather more force than was necessary. Eyes closed, he took a deep breath through his nose and laid his hands very deliberately on his desk. "I'm sorry. She's-"

"Quite all right, Lestrade," Sherlock clipped, teasing tone gone. "We both know Sally and I aren't exactly pals."

Sherlock managed to keep the ice out of his voice until the very last word, but John was having none of it. Sally Donovan may be an excellent policewoman, but she was a rubbish person – at least to Sherlock and anyone she associated with him. This whole week she'd been gnawing on his last nerve whenever they'd been in the station. It was like she and that pointy-faced friend of hers - Anders? Flanders? Something. – hung around just to make jabs at the detective. That and for Donovan to make unwanted, overt, and discomfiting passes at John. The problem was, John had been in the army. Moreover, he'd been an officer. He knew a thing or two about making someone feel uncomfortable. He was tired, his neck was stiff, the coffee was awful, there were two dead girls, and this woman had just insulted his friend and come onto him in the same breath.

John was done.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock's voice was annoyed tinged with just a slight underpinning of anxiety. The doctor had apparently gotten up in the middle of the DI saying something, but he didn't really care. John didn't respond to Sherlock as he opened the door to Lestrade's office; simply twitched a tight smile and twigged his eyebrows upwards. Then he strode out of the Inspector's office with purpose.

Oh no.

Sherlock hadn't known John Watson long, but he was familiar with that body language. That was the Army Medic on a Mission body language he'd managed to eek out of the smaller man once or twice in the last few days. It had been coupled with an annoyance level he hoped (likely in vain) to never incur from the smaller man. It was the work of only a moment to mentally run through what may have set him off before realization struck him. The detective got up quickly and excused himself, blustering out of the room abruptly.

"Well, this was enlightening, I'll give Molly your apologies, Lestrade. Text me if you find anything. Goodbye!"

He strode off after the Army doctor and hoped he was in time to keep them from being kicked out of NSY. He rounded the corner to the elevators and Sally Donovan's desk and shopped short, not quite sure what he was seeing. John was leaning over Sally's desk, not quite in her personal space, but speaking intensely.

John had waited very patiently while Sally finished her phone call, standing politely a few feet from her desk. She hung up the phone and he approached with a deceptive calm about him. She noticed him a pace or two from her desk and smirked at him.

"You here for me?" she asked, putting on a show of being coy.

John pinched his face into the deathmask of a smile. "Well, you did instruct me to come see you. Now tell me..." the slam of his palms on the desk as he leaned over it was just enough to draw the attention of those surrounding her. "What, exactly, compelled you to be a police officer? Was it the ability to sexually harass whosoever you please?" He looked at her through his eyelashes and leaned forward as the constable's eyes widened. "Or maybe the opportunity to hide that shitty a personality of yours behind a badge? I'll give you a tip - fucking your way 'round the office isn't exactly the M.O. of an empowered woman. Though, as a doctor, I'll say it's an excellent plan for HPV." He stood back up and picked up her pencil, studying it for a moment and tapping it on his palm before looking at her intensely and speaking again. The muscles in his face were arranged into calm, but nobody looking at him would mistake his expression for friendly. "I don't care who the hell you think you are, you will never speak to me like that again. Like I told you before, I'm. Not. Interested. And you will never speak to Sherlock like that again. You will address me as Doctor Watson. Sherlock can be Mr. Holmes, I suppose – that's up to him, but if you or that married man you're screwing ever call him Freak again, there will be violence. If Lestrade pulled some of your shit on so much as a receptionist he'd be out of work, competence be damned! Let alone a professional witness. And if you can't get it through that thick skull of yours, I will press harassment charges and you will be removed. "

Sally looked like someone had told her to eat dung. "You can't do that," she hissed. "Like anyone would ever believe-"

"That a female police officer sexually harassed a decorated army veteran while he was volunteering his services? Maybe not... but it certainly doesn't look good, does it? Just cuz you're a woman doesn't mean you can do what you like." John levelled his best target-assessing gaze at her and added, low and furious, "He's smarter than you'll ever be and better at your job without trying. Fuck off with the jealousy bit and be a goddamn professional. Don't. Try. Me."

And with that, John Watson smiled brightly at the officers around him, bounced his shoulders a bit and turned towards the elevator.

Sally Donovan stared after the small doctor as he walked away. She had a look on her face like the man had just revealed himself as Freddy Kurger. "You two deserve each other, you know!" she called after him. Then she scowled at anyone whose attention she appeared to have gathered and aggressively started reorganizing her desk.

John nearly bowled Sherlock over, as the detective had managed to inch his way towards the confrontation while the doctor and the policewoman were involved in conversation. He hadn't heard much, but he had gleaned enough from the body language and what little he'd caught to get a good picture. Despite nearly landing on his arse in the middle of the precinct, all he could do was stare at his blonde compatriot as he steadied them both and grabbed the detective's elbow to lead him to the elevator.

"Come on, now, she's right pissed with both of us at the moment. Probably not the best idea to go poke at her," John muttered. They arrived at the elevator and he pressed the call button.

Sherlock blinked several times and stopped looking over his shoulder in the direction they'd come. He narrowed his eyes and finally spoke. "You didn't have to do that. I can handle them myself." He scowled.

John huffed a laugh. "Yah, I know. On the other hand, that woman's been throwing herself in my direction all week. It's damned unprofessional and it makes me uncomfortable." He squirmed a little, like the idea of her finding him attractive made him feel slimy. "Can't abide cheaters," he muttered, "Blech."

The side of Sherlock's lips twitched up and he spoke to John sidelong. "Anderson's gone back to his wife again. She's been subconsciously acting out trying to get his attention, though I admit her targeting you was likely a... mistake."

"Well, her personal problems are her business. Bringing baggage like that into a firefight's a good way to get everyone around you killed," John replied darkly.

Sherlock Hmm'd and became quiet as they rode down to the lobby.

"Interesting utilization of language," he started brightly as they started towards the street. John quirked an eyebrow in his direction. "Not exactly elevated vocabulary, but effective nonetheless. And I appreciate you choosing not to be arrested on an assault charge in the precinct."

John laughed and they both relaxed a bit as they headed out of the building and down the sidewalk. "Well, yeah. There weren't many thesauruses in the army, but we did learn how to make someone listen." He glanced at Sherlock, walking beside him. "And I can't get arrested – I need to meet this Molly Hooper you and Lestrade are always on about." He caught the detective's eye and winked broadly. "I hear she's a hell of a woman."

Sherlock's eye-roll was belied by the amused smile he couldn't quite tamp down. "Oh, don't let the DI see you like that. He's been beating around her bush since his wife left him the first time. Shame, really, his sense of loyalty. Molly is a far superior candidate... Really John, what now?"

John was trying incredibly hard, and failing just as incredibly, to stifle laughter into his fist. He looked at his friend. "Please... tell me you mean that figuratively."

Sherlock blinked. "Molly is quite literally a superior partner for Lestrade than his current wife, I don't know why-"

John was quickly loosing his composure and Sherlock was getting more and more confused. Which meant he was getting more and more annoyed.

"No, Sherlock. He's been Figuratively beating around The bush. Say 'figuratively' next time."

"Of course I meant figuratively, JOHN, what do you expect I mean? Lestrade's been pacing around her hedges with his billy club? Really..."

John abandoned the effort to contain his laughter and wrapped both arms around his middle. Sherlock huffed and flipped up his collar against the cold, glaring at the man in hysterics beside him on the sidewalk. He really didn't see what was all that amusing about front gardens and police batons. He waited impatiently for the smaller man to get a hold of himself and sunk a bit into his jacket and scarf, definitely-not-hiding behind his trench-coat's upturned collar. It was cold.

Eventually John calmed down, wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. "Thanks, mate. I needed that," he chirped happily

Sherlock harumphed, but emerged a bit above his coat.

They resumed their walk to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital to meet the infamous pathologist, Dr. Hooper, and her 'interesting' toxicology results.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock had perked up as soon as he and John had gotten within sight of the historic old hospital. Making their way down the hallways, there was a spring in his step John hadn't seen and his enthusiasm was infectious. He kept getting meters ahead of the doctor, then turning and making his way back to hurry his companion, before taking off again. It reminded John uncannily of a particularly excited Labrador on the way to the park. He finally paused in front of some double doors at the end of the hallway marked "Morgue" and turned an assessing eye to John. The doctor raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"We going in?"

Sherlock ran his gaze quickly from the top of John's head to the bottom of his shoes, a line of concern momentarily showing itself between his eyebrows, and he squinted. Cocking his head to the side, he waved a hand in at John's torso.

"Take off your jacket."

The doctor carefully acquiesced, and Sherlock sized him up again. He patted a bit of John's hair into place and nodded. "Better," he mumbled, throwing open the door with a flourish and walking in like he owned the place.

Molly Hooper was in the middle of an autopsy when Sherlock let himself and John into her lab at Bart's hospital. Her chestnut-brown hair was up in a side-braid which had begun the day pinned up neatly and had subsequently found itself trailing down her shoulder with little strands floating in front of her face every few minutes. She had on a headlamp and was elbow-deep in a rather overweight gentleman who had probably died of a bowel obstruction. (The family wasn't very pleased with that particular diagnosis, so here she was. She sent a mental apology to Mr. Shrooter as she cut through yet another layer of connective tissue). She jumped, squeaked, and nearly yanked out his liver when one of the double doors to the lab burst open.

"Molly!" a effusive baritone called across her lab. "How's my little kitchen-witch this morning?"

Sherlock caught sight of the gentleman Molly was currently in the process of disemboweling and shrugged off his trench-coat and scarf hurriedly."Oh, who have we got here?" he asked excitedly, going for the box of nitrile gloves at her side.

The box he was reaching for floated up and out of his reach immediately, coming to rest on a counter across the room. "Sherlock! Just because I'm Welsh doesn't mean you can say things like that! My grandma'd have a fit if she thought I was taking credit for some of her work..." Molly teased, grinning, and nodded at the gloves. "And you know those are too small, you break them – yours are in the cupboard like usual." She giggled a bit and John hung back to enjoy the show as Molly went about putting every professional Manipulator he'd ever encountered casually to shame. Removing her slightly goey hands from her charge and seeming utterly involved in carefully taking them off, a cabinet swung open behind her which Sherlock immediately went to and retrieved some large, blue gloves. Simultaneously, the sheet covering the body in front of her crept up and covered it to the shoulders, her headlamp flicked off, her portable spotlight rotated to allow Sherlock's considerably taller frame more space to maneuver, and a rolling chair he hadn't noticed inched up to him invitingly.

"Go ahead and take a seat, sir, I apologize for the delay. I'll be with you in a moment," she called to John. He just stood there for a moment, taking another, better look at the tiny, mousey woman washing her hands at the sink as she allowed Sherlock poke around with the dead man on the table.

"That was fantastic," John voiced, and slowly rolled the chair back to the counter before approaching the pathologist and detective.

Sherlock, involved and possibly inspecting the dead man's teeth, responded in distracted tones. "Really, John, I've not done anything..." He blinked and glanced at Molly, then back to the doctor with a slightly sour expression on his face. "Oh. _That_."

Molly let out a small, amused laugh. It reminded John of wind chimes. She smiled warmly and walked towards him, drying her hands on some paper towels and extending one in greeting. "So _you're_ the infamous Doctor Watson. I've heard a lot about you lately," she glanced sidelong at the detective who was suddenly very interested in Mr. Shrooter's toenails.

John shook her hand enthusiastically. "And I keep hearing you mentioned, but can't seem to get this one to tell me anything about you, Doctor Hooper. That really was remarkable, though. You didn't even look at what you were doing!"

Molly flushed a little under the praise and waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, we've all got our strengths, don't we?" A muffled 'humph' from the vicinity of Mr. Shooter's feet caused Molly to roll her eyes. "Besides," she continued a bit louder, throwing the words over her shoulder, "all it takes is _practice._" She smiled again at John. "I know the place like the back of my hand, so it's not such a jump to moving things around. Especially with all the delicate work I do with, well, _it_ instead of my hands," she held up tiny hands and, giggling, wiggled her fingers. "Notoriously shaky fingers, mine." John noted but didn't ask about the matching fractal-like burn-scars that started below her palms and disappeared under her lab coat sleeves. He worked in a clinic that dealt with those sort of injuries every day, after all. Molly's smile flagged for a moment when she realized he had seen, but only for a moment.

"And please, call me Molly. Sherlock does." She pulled nervously at her sleeves, belaying some anxiety underneath the bubbly conversation.

"Then call me John. Sherlock does. Or at least no more 'Doctor Watson' business," he replied.

"Of course, John Watson. And I'm sure he does... call you John, I mean." Molly assessed him in a similar fashion to the way Sherlock had in the hallway and grinned again, glancing at the detective who was trying and failing very hard to look as though he was not listening. "Besides if he likes you enough to spiff you up to bring you down here, I'm sure we'll be fast friends too. I believe that was the point?" Her last question was obviously directed at the eavesdropping detective.

Sherlock sagged a little against the table at Molly's last remark before swallowing his embarrassment at being caught out, then stood. "I didn't 'spiff him up', Molly, he comes like that." His chin raised in that familiar look of obstinacy. "And it doesn't matter if you like him or not, it's already been settled and I'm keeping him. Rubbish taste in clothing or not."

"Oi! I like this shirt." John made a face and plucked at his buttons, muttering. "Keep me, I'll keep you, you tosser. Can't sleep doesn't feed himself, keep _me, _not bloody likely..."

Molly giggled and walked back to the detective, patting his back comfortingly. "It's ok, Sherlock. I do work with dead, naked people all day after all. And how can I not like him after all the lovely things you told me?"

Sherlock huffed in indignation and snapped off his gloves, turning and towering over the pathologist. "Lestrade sent us to tell you he can't make it but he'll be 'round for dinner again," he bit out and Molly's face fell a little in confusion.

"Well," Sherlock gestured vaguely and addressed the air over Molly's head. "He sent us over because you had a toxicology report on Madeline Brixton which you told him was interesting, which you did _not_ inform me of by the way," he poked the headlamp still situated at her hairline in emphasis. Molly scowled and Sherlock went on. "You're to be forgiven, however, as you were obviously just looking for an excuse to see him. Which is absurd, he already bothers you enough as it is. You've hardly been available when I need body parts lately. But the dinner bit was obvious, as was his distress at being unable to come over and get the results himself." He sighed a long-suffering sigh and glanced over his shoulder to check that he had regained John's attention.

"Hormones," he lamented, rolling his eyes, then turned his attention to the pathologist who appeared to be biting her cheek and had crossed her arms in front of her chest. "So what are these interesting results? Or were you just trying to get him to drop what he was doing and visit so you could moon over each other like teenagers?"

"I'll show you hormones, you berk," she muttered and stalked past him to her computer, where she sat down with rather more force than necessary. John squashed the laugh that threatened as he was acutely reminded of Sherlock's own belligerent behavior. He idly wondered who had picked it up from whom, or if these two were perhaps related somehow.

Molly pulled up the tox screen and printed out a copy, handing it to the detective. She pointed to a reading on the page and his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Oh my, this _is _interesting," he said and handed over the page to John. John took a moment to scan the results before...

"Why the hell would she have Fentanyl in her system?"

"Not the why, John – look at the dose. It's the How!"

"But... it's a pain killer. Hugely powerful, they give it to people in patches unless they're in hospital. Too much in an IV bag'll kill a man if you're not careful, slows the breathing to a stop. It's for-" He stopped abruptly and Sherlock and Molly both looked at him sharply.

"What is it?"

"It's used for breakthrough pain in cancer patients, Sherlock. Liver, pancreatic, bone... but…no. There's no way for an outpatient to get a dose that high, it doesn't make sense. Besides, she was healthy. It-"

Sherlock cut him off with a raised hand. He was looking at the doctor intensely. "Maybe he didn't want her to feel pain, maybe he didn't want her to fight back, the why isn't _important_ John, it's the how! You said it's added to IV bags?"

John nodded.

Sherlock turned to Molly. "Where is she?"

The pathologist understood immediately. "I'll get her out for you. I kept her – figured you'd want a look." She headed off to the cold chamber.

Oh this was good. Very good. Sherlock had known their killer was going to slip up, but he didn't realize it was going to be this big. Now he just had to confirm his theory and it would be short work to find the man. Julia Smalls had been discovered with defensive wounds but Madeline Brixton had displayed none. Her clothes and the X on her hand indicated she'd been out on the town when abducted and the tox screen had been run expecting to find alcohol or other drugs. The Fentanyl indicated something much more sinister. He'd found her. Followed her. Made sure she was alone and then... well, he had a theory but he needed to make sure.

"Here we go!" Molly was wheeling out a gurney with a smallish lumpy form under a white sheet into the autopsy area. The overhead lamp swished over and clicked on as she locked the gurney in place and she looked seriously at the detective. "Evidence rules, Mister Bundy. No cutting, no experimentation, no bits – just observation like normal. She's been claimed."

"Yes, fine, fine," Sherlock grabbed some more gloves and fell upon the body with his pocket-magnifier. He had to go over all the obvious places, but maybe some of the less obvious places too. She was so small, both her and Julia, but a needle-stick was going to be difficult to spot no matter how tiny the body. This might take a while...

Molly came over and leaned against the counter where John was scanning the tox screen for anything else out of the ordinary. Nothing, besides some THC in her blood but that wasn't much worth noting. She'd only been nineteen after all.

"He's taken to you right well, hasn't he?"

John looked up and took in the pathologist. She was leaning with her arms crossed over her chest, watching Sherlock with a fond smile as he puttered around the body of Madeline Brixton. He smiled as well, enjoying the opportunity to watch the man work unimpeded by police.

"Yeah, I supposed so. I've taken to him, though, so all's well in the end." He shrugged and turned to find Molly studying him thoughtfully.

"He's talked about you a lot. I've never heard him mention anyone so much," she said carefully. "You know he doesn't get on much with other people..."

"He seems to get on well with you," replied John with a quirked eyebrow.

Molly crinkled her nose and smiled, waving her hand. "Yeah, well, that's how it goes. Like attracts like and all that. I've known him for ages – he used to skulk around the labs here when I was a student. I transferred residencies mid-year to pathology from obstetrics and apparently that caught his attention. He started showing up while I was on call and bugging me for body parts and access to the John Doe's for 'experiments' and eventually he started spending time here just keeping me company. We ended up getting on well. He didn't care about my dark sense of humor and I didn't care he was an unlicensed Manipulator. And I thought he was _so_... well, he's a handsome boy until he opens his mouth, and then it just gets better, right?" She smiled sideways at John, then looked back towards the detective. "Now he's practically acting my big brother, with all the gaff he gives me about Greg. He's hot and cold as far as visits nowadays, but he's constantly texting. I'd say we're friends but... well, I think he just felt bad at first."

"Sherlock? Felt bad for something?" John quirked an eyebrow up sarcastically, but he was genuinely curious.

Molly's eyes widened like she realized she'd said something she shouldn't. "Oh. God. I... I just figured, if he was bringing you to meet me. And you didn't seem surprised when you saw my... I just assumed he told you. Sorry." She flushed scarlet and looked at her toes.

"Molly, why would Sherlock feel bad about your arms?" John asked the question in a hushed whisper. He suddenly had a knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He also knew he likely wouldn't get the full version from his flatmate if he asked.

Molly looked at him with a slightly distressed look on her face, whispering. "Now don't you get all mad at him, he's practically family. And he's happier than I've seen him since..." she trailed off. "Well, he's happy. Finally. So don't go judging him for associations from years back."

John narrowed his eyes at the pathologist, but acquiesced. "Okay. I promise."

She sighed. "Some juicer got past security and stumbled into the OB ward one night. Looking for Sherlock – he was investigating an abduction. The guy freaked out and I had to restrain him, but he was just shy of an OD and surprised me." She smiled ruefully. "He zapped me good, but I wasn't expecting it and the backlash created the burns."

John nodded. "And it telegraphed Professional Manipulator to anyone who saw them."

"Yeah... Plus, with the scars I either looked like I didn't know what I was doing or like I was a careless junkie. Not to mention the people out there who don't want a Manipulator working on them at all to begin with. There are bigots everywhere..." She sighed. "Eventually I got sick of the living and decided the dead were easier to work with. When Sherlock figured out the reason I switched specialities, well... suddenly he started showing up a lot more." She laughed softly. "It's worked out, though. I am _quite _good at my job, if you don't mind my saying. And I love it. They give me run of the place, and I can let Sherlock use the lab sometimes so he doesn't suffocate trying things he shouldn't without a fume hood in his kitchen. I would've gotten bored up there. People get sick and die in loads more interesting ways than they create life...And I don't think the mothers would have appreciated by particular brand of dark humor for long."

John shook his head. "I'm... glad it worked out, I guess. But...why was some juicer looking for Sherlock?"

"Oh, I don't know..." she replied cautiously. "Who knows who-all he runs into in his line of work." She was quiet for a moment, then giggled. "He does manage to get attached to us broken ones, though, doesn't he?"

The doctor couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, he does at that. Though Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade both seem pretty normal."

Molly looked at him with a skeptical expression. "Oh, John Watson. We're all a bit broken. It's the cracks that make us interesting."

"Well, if that's the case than-"

"_AH-HAH!"_

Molly and John broke off their conversation and joined Sherlock by Madeline Brixton's side in seconds, peering at what Sherlock was pointing to.

"I knew it! I knew it! A syringe! A syringe, which means special-case prescriptions, which means a man able to administer his own medications! We're looking for a doctor, John! A religious doctor with terminal bone cancer who blends into a college crowd! Hah! Not many, not likely, not in London - Text Lestrade. Our suspect pool just got significantly smaller."


End file.
